fit  rntjo  takftt)  tlie  STO&  stjall  pnisj)  ty  ttje 


THE  TWO  FATHERS. 


AN    UNPUBLISHED    ORIGINAL   SPANISH   WORK. 

BY 
ADADUS    CALPE. 

TRANSLATED  INTO  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE 


PABT  FIRST : 

THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE, 


NEW-YORK : 

STRINGER  &  TOWNSEND,  PUBLISHERS, 

222    BROADWAY. 

1852. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852,  by 

ANTONIO  D.  DE  PASCUAL. 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New- York. 


StacT; 
Annex 


5017824 


TO 


8.   SUAREZ,  Esq.: 


MODEST  AND  ENLIGHTENED  MIND 
GENEROUS  AND  NOBLE  HEART  : 

THIS  HOMAGE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  IS  OFFERED  YOU 
38g 

ADADUS   OALPE. 

BBOOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  26th  March,  1862. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  ENGLISH  TRANSLATION. 


IT  is  the  duty  of  an  author,  particularly  when  he  publishes 
his  writings  in  a  tongue  which  is  not  his  own,  to  show  to 
the  readers  what  he  has  proposed  in  the  original ;  and  at 
the  same  time  to  observe  that  certain  accessories,  beautiful 
in  one  nation  in  consequence  of  climate,  of  education,  of 
the  mode  of  government,  of  local  beauties,  have  not  the 
same  attraction  for  another  people.  My  idea  was  to  write 
for  the  Spanish  family  of  both  hemispheres,  not  forgetting 
that  the  scenes  of  this  narration  take  place  in  France ;  but 
after  some  reflection  I  have  determined  to  publish  in 
English :  so  that  it  will  not  be  strange  if  some  passages  in 
their  literal  translation  do  not  produce  exactly  the  in- 
tended effect  upon  the  Anglo-American  population.  But 
the  inhabitants  of  these  happy  States  are  of  all  nations,  in 
part  by  birth,  in  part  by  education  ;  they  sympathize  with 
all  that  exhibits  the  Dignity  of  Man ;  they  feel  the  value 
of  education,  for  there  is  no  people  in  the  world  among 
whom  it  is  so  widely  diffused ;  they  know  the  power  of 
religion,  and  the  gulf  opened  at  the  feet  of  those  who  do 
not  possess  it :  so  that  all  these  eminent  qualities,  united  to 
their  benevolent  hospitality,  have  encouraged  me  to  clothe 
my  modest  offspring  in  a  foreign  dress ;  and  I  cherish  the 
anticipation  that  they  will  receive  it  with  that  open  free- 
dom, and  hospitable  kindness  which  distinguish  the  first 
amono;  the  free  men  of  the  universe. 


vi  PREFACE. 

Religion,  Wisdom,  Education,  Work,  and  Constancy, 
are  the  device  of  my  writings.  The  scenes  are  all  natural, 
for  it  is  unquestionable,  that  men  have  passions,  which  are 
as  the  sails  and  the  wind  which  swells  them,  to  vessels,  en- 
abling them  to  navigate  the  ocean ;  but  it  is  my  duty  to 
notify  that,  although  strictly  moral,  there  are  points  in 
which,  as  happens  in  the  history  of  the  human  race,  I  have 
been  obliged  to  describe  man  as  he  is ;  for  the  contrary 
would  be  to  fail  in  truthfulness,  and  by  an  exaggerated 
scrupulosity,  my  personages  would  be  changed  into  gro- 
tesque monastic  phantasms.  Truth  and  Virtue  go  arm  in 
arm,  illumined  in  the  midst  of  the  obscurity  of  Vices, — 
hypocritical  monsters  which  people  the  whole  earth — by 
the  splendid  light  of  Wisdom. 

In  some  passages  I  have  used  the  language  of  mon- 
archies, in  others  that  of  republics,  guided  in  this  by  his- 
tory, which  teaches  us  to  be  moderate,  ceremonious,  timid 
in  the  former,  and  frank,  severe,  free  in  the  latter.  Greece 
and  Rome  bequeathed  us  both  styles. 

There  are  passions  which  either  the  influence  of  tempe- 
rament, or  vicious  education,  or  preoccupations,  or  other 
innumerable  causes  develope  in  the  meridional  nations, 
to  which  more  northern  people  are  not  so  generally  ac- 
cessible. There  are  ideas,  as  there  are  beliefs,  which  pre- 
vail in  the  north  of  Europe  and  America, — as  the  Protes- 
tant church  ;  others  which  reign  in  the  south, — as  the  Ca- 
tholic church ;  others  in  the  east, — as  the  Greek ;  the 
roots  of  which  are  so  deep,  that  to  attempt  to  generalize 
them  would  be  to  reduce  them  to  nothing,  and  in  their 
respective  countries  they  have  incontestable  beauties;  but 
the  truth  is,  that  all  these  fractions  unite  in  admiring  a 
general,  beautiful,  and  sublime  whole,  although  in  their 
details  they  do  not  agree.  If  this  work  had  been  written 


PREFACE.  vii 

in  English,  I  should  not  have  introduced  certain  scenes 
purely  continental,  but  its  being  a  translation,  makes  me 
hope  that  they  will  not  be  displeasing  to  my  readers. 

In  order  to  give  a  review  of  my  plan  I  will  repeat  what 
I  said  in  the  Prospectus ;  that  is,  that  my  two  Books  are 
Man  and  Nature;  the  tableaux  of  the  latter,  the  linea- 
ments of  the  former ;  the  truth  of  the  one,  and  the  falsity  of 
the  other  ;  the  sympathetic  front  of  Virtue,  and  the  repul- 
sive visage  of  Vice;  the  grandeur  of  heroic  actions,  and 
the  vileness  of  sin ;  the  sublimity  of  the  affections  of  man 
in  his  normal  state,  and  their  baseness  in  moments  of  aber- 
ration :  what  education  is,  and  the  horrors  to  which  the 
want  of  it  conducts ;  the  worth  of  nobleness  of  soul,  and 
the  contemptibility  of  that  which,  consists  only  in  parch- 
ments. I  have  wished  to  show  that  science  alone,  without 
religion,  involves  itself  in  dense  darkness  :  that  education, 
aided  by  faith  in  the  One  True  God,  can  make  heroes  ;  but 
that  without  this  faith,  it  is  a  vain  pretence,  which  serves 
only  to  raise  an  intoxicating  vapor ;  that  the  people  are 
victims  to  the  bad  organization  of  human  affairs,  to  the 
ambition  of  certain  leaders,  to  ignorance — in  which,  for 
their  own  convenience,  their  rulers  keep  them — being  wor- 
thy of  better  days ;  that  the  sage — this  middle  class  which 
forms  the  thinking  element  of  the  nations — if  not  pro- 
voked by  the  world,  would  invent  wonders  for  the  per- 
fecting of  his  kind,  objects  to  Avhich  Nature,  our  mother, 
constantly  tends,  and  which  now  he  seldom  attempts,  since 
he  fears  the  ingratitude  of  those  around  him — which  is 
more  bitter  than  death;  or  the  interpretations  of  the 
ignorant — whose  number  is  infinite ;  or  he  is  overwhelmed 
by  his  sufferings — which  are  generally  intense;  so  that 
what  would  be  a  wonderful  antidote,  is  converted  into  a 
powerful  poison ;  that  however  depraved  the  heart  of  man 


viii  PREFACE. 

may  be,  it  cannot  resist  the  beauty  of  virtue,  when  present- 
ed in  all  its  simplicity ;  that  the  greater  part  of  the  horrors 
committed  by  the  masses  are  the  natural  offspring  of  the 
higher  classes, — whose  repentance  generally  comes  too 
late : — finally,  that  in  this  world  man  is  mostly  rewarded 
according  to  his  deeds,  or  what  is  the  same  thing,  that  he 
who  takes  Vie  sword  perishes  by  the  sword. 

And  now  that  I  have  succinctly  stated  my  plan,  I  must 
come  to  the  new  dress  which  I  have  given  to  my  humble 
foreign  conception.  Let  us  imagine  it  a  Spanish  or  French 
girl,  poor,  unhappy,  but  my  daughter,  and  that  I  love  her 
with  all  her  defects,  uncomeliness,  tawny  complexion,  black 
eyes,  slender  frame,  weakness,  sickliness,  timidity,  and 
that  I  wish  to  dress  her  in  the  style  of  the  country  which 
I  have  adopted  for  her.  As  a  stranger,  I  am  not  prac- 
tised in  the  caprices  of  the  fashion  of  the  country,  nor  in 
those  finer  strokes  which  constitute  the  speciality  of  the 
new  Fatherland ;  and  although  I  have  watched  piece  by 
piece,  and  word  by  word,  every  thing  contained  in  my 
work,  I  frankly  confess  that  the  accessories  which  may 
make  her  more  national  often  escape  me,  and  therefore 
I  have  associated  with  me  a  son  of  the  country,  or 
what  is  the  same  thing,  of  the  mother-country,  who 
takes  upon  himself  to  place  properly  those  pins,  those  rib- 
bons, those  ornaments  which  my  foreign  taste,  at  present, 
with  all  my  efforts,  knows  not  how  to  place ;  and  it  will  be 
seen  that  I  have  done  all  that  lies  in  my  power  to  natural- 
ize her.  Lay  aside  allegories  :  the  reader  will  judge  whe- 
ther the  English  style  is  pure,  the  expressions  chaste,  the 
phraseology  national. 

It  now  only  remains  for  me  to  cast  myself  upon  the 
indulgent  kindness  of  the  public. 


ttjat  takttt)  tjje  sraort  stjall  pcristj  litj  ttjt  smart. 


THE   TWO    FATHERS. 


FIRST  PART. 

lUins  nf  tjjt 


CHAPTEK    I. 

IT  was  the  month  of  June,  1836.  M.  Gueneau  de  Mussy,  a 
distinguished  member  of  the  Faculty  in  Paris,  had  just  been 
refuting,  with  equal  power  and  elegance,  in  the  Academy  of 
Medicine,  the  opinions  of  the  Phrenologists,  then  in  vogue. 
Gall,  Spurzheim  and  others,  were  authorities  of  great  weight, 
who  could  not  but  attract,  in  the  course  of  five-and-twenty  years, 
many  disciples,  and  make  many  proselytes  all  over  the  world, 
particularly  in  France,  the  standard-bearer  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion. Nevertheless,  this  hypothesis,  which  will  never  reach 
even  the  portico  of  Science,  had,  like  all  human  things,  enthu- 
siastic panegyrists,  and  inveterate  enemies.  Which  side  is 
right  the  reader  of  the  following  pages  may  judge  ;  and  we 
believe  that  while  Phrenology  may  dazzle  for  awhile,  it  will 
become  dim  in  the  rising  light  of  truth.  The  cranium  of 
Fieschi  had,  according  to  some,  certain  protuberances  situate 
upon  the  side  of  the  head,  where  has  been  placed  the  organ  of 
Murder  or  Destructiveness  :  according  to  others,  these  protu- 
berances were  not  found  in  Fieschi,  but  were  so  in  G  eneral  Foy, 


THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

the  type  of  urbanity  and  nobleness.*  Contradictions  so  enor- 
mous, and  others  which  we  do  not  cite,  prove  that  man  in  the 
midst  of  his  progress  often  struggles  in  the  darkness  of  ignor- 
ance while  he  believes  himself  enthroned  in  the  spheres  of  light. 
To  say  that  miserable  mortals  are  victims  of  their  organization 
is  a  blasphemy — a  doctrine  fatal  to  all  liberty,  to  all  morality, 
to  all  hope  ;  a  doctrine  which  arms  the  ignorant  with  terrible 
weapons,  worse  than  the  inevitable  doom  of  Mahomet,  and  pre- 
sents to  the  mind  of  man  Destiny  with  outspread  wings  swoop- 
ing over  the  earth,  spreading  desolation,  piling  up  putrescent 
masses.  We  should  have  much  to  say  upon  this  subject,  but  it 
is  not  our  intention  to  deliver  an  anti-phrenological  course  ;  we 
prefer  commencing  at  once  a  history  that  will  furnish  our  hum- 
ble pen  with  matter  for  many  pages. 

In  the  northern  part  of  the  Department  of  Aube,  some 
twenty-six  leagues  from  Paris,  there  is  a  small  town,  Nogent 
de  la  Seine,  watered  by  the  river  which  lends  it  its  name.  Not 
far  off,  a  pile  of  ruins  arrests  the  view  of  the  traveller.  Moul- 
dering arches,  broken  columns,  heaps  of  stone  and  brick,  walls 
carpeted  with  saxifrage,  with  tree  and  ground  ivy,  with  parieta- 
ria  and  its  round  red  stems  brittle  as  glass,  and  its  rough,  dark 
green,  sharp  pointed  leaves,  and  small  apetalous  flowers,  and  an 
infinity  of  other  climbing  plants  and  shrubs,  over  which  lightly 
runs  the  lizard,  lover  of  silence,  with  sparkling  eye,  rustling  in 
his  nimble  course  the  heaps  of  withered  leaves,  and  interrupting 
the  tranquillity  which  reigns  in  these  solitudes,  over  whose 
crumbling  masses  has  rolled  the  light  of  some  eight  centuries. 
The  founder  of  this  monastery  sought  to  immortalize  the  mem- 
ory of  the  consolation  he  so  much  needed  by  calling  it  THE 
PARACLETE.  His  history,  though  immoral,  is  well  known,  and 
has  furnished  the  materials  for  the  Abelard  and  Heloisc  ;  but 
such  are  human  things,  the  Paraclete  no  longer  exists  save  in 
ruins,  and  many  of  the  inhabitants  of  its  own  neighborhood, 

*  Journal  des  Debate,  27th  June,  1836. 

I 


THE  RV1NS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  3 

and  nearly  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  know  not  who  founded  it, 

and   do   not  approach   it,  because let  us  hear  two 

ignorant  peasants  who  are  passing  by,  eyeing  the  ruins  askance, 
and  they  will  tell  us  why. 

—  Not  in  the  day  time  ;  but  in  the  night  it  is  horrible  ;  you 
could  hear  the  groans  from  this  place  where  we  stand,  and  you 
see  it's  a  good  way  off. 

—  And  the  man  with  the  long  beard  lives  there,  eh  ? 

—  Parbleu  !  don't  name  him,  Julien,  don't  name  him  ;  M.  le 
Cure  told  Dame  Frayeur  that  the  old  founder  of  this  monastery 
was  a  scandalous  man,  who  among  other  things  taught  a  young 
lady  I  don't  know  what  magic  tricks  ;  but  one  thing  is  certain, 
that  they  both  got  a  whipping  at  last,  and  a  pretty  smart  one 
too  !   and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  old  fellow  that  lives  now  in 
these  ruins,  but  nobody  has  ever  seen  him,  must  be  an  enchan- 
ter, a  wizard,  a  goblin,  a  devil's  whelp,  for  he  goes  about  with  a 
bald-headed  raven,  the  ugliest  thing  in  the  world,  and  the  nasty 
bird  understands  him  when  he  speaks  for  all  the  world  like  a 
Christian. 

The  clown  hearing  this,  crossed  himself,  stared  vacantly 
with  his  mouth  agape  from  ear  to  ear,  his  knees  knocking 
together,  awkwardly  shuffling  his  feet,  and  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  he  said  : 

—  Why,  how  does  he  live  1 

—  Why  does  he  live,  man  ?    Ah  !  there's  a  question  !    Why  ? 
— because  he  is  not  dead. 

—  And  why  is  he  not  dead  living  there  1 

—  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  at  night  they  say  it  is  frightful  to  hear 
the  groanings  and  howlings  that  come  from  the  cavern  he  lives 
in. 

—  And  he  does  really  live  in  there  ? 

—  To  be  sure,  he  lives  in  those  vaults. 

—  And, —  said  the  other,  nudging  his  companion,  —  he  has 
not  got  a  young  lady  like  the  old  founder  to  teach  magics  to  ? 

At  this  question  they  both  stood  still :    the  one  puffed  out 


4  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

his  ruddy  cheeks  choking  with  laughter  ;  the  other  with  his 
hands  resting  on  his  knees,  burst  into  a  convulsive  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Both,  face  to  face,  stood  there  laughing  for  some  time,  when 
the  raven  of  which  they  had  just  been  speaking  passed  over 
*  their  heads  croaking.  They  remained  fixed  in  the  same  posi- 
tion, glancing  from  side  to  side  with  terror  in  their  eyes  and 
wide-opened  mouths,  till  it  was  out  of  sight ;  then  crossing 
themselves,  they  went  on  their  way  to  their  cabins  in  an 
unbroken  silence,  looking  fitfully  from  time  to  time  over  their 
shoulders. 

Let  us  leave  these  countrymen,  and  follow  two  travellers 
who  are  taking  the  narrow  lane  lined  with  green  turf  which 
leads  to  the  ruins.  Both  have  reached  a  mature  age,  both  be- 
long to  an  elevated  rank  in  society,  and  although  arrived  at  a 
period  of  reflection,  both  think  as  to  certain  matters  like  gay 
young  men  of  the  world.  They  are  on  foot  and  alone,  for 
neither  the  peasants  of  the  neighborhood  nor  the  town's  peo- 
ple of  Nogent  dare  approach  the  mysterious  ruins ;  so  that  they 
have  had  to  leave  the  carriage  in  which  they  came  at  the  end  of 
the  lane. 

—  Strange  country ! —  said  the  younger  of  the  two.  —  strange 
country  is  this  France  !     Side  by  side  with  learning,  around 
the  very  focus  of  science,  one  finds  the  most  frightful  supersti- 
tion, the  densest  ignorance.     Did  you  hear,  Count,  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  hotel-keeper  and  his  guests,  when  we  said  we  wished 
to  visit  the  ruins  of  the  Paraclete  ? 

—  Yes,  Baron,  but  that  proves  only  a  bad  social  organization. 
In  France,  it  is  as  though  the  proprietor  of  a  chateau,  who  was 
eminently  selfish,  possessed  a  reservoir  intended  for  purposes  of 
irrigation,  which  he  would  not  suffer  to  be  used  for  the  neigh- 
boring fields  ;    his  own  pastures,  mellows,  and  gardens  would 
have  all  the  luxuriance  of  tropical   ve<_'etatinn.  enriched  by  the 
abundant  watering  of  crystal  streams,  while  the  adjacent  fields 
would  present  but  a  desert   to  the  view  of  his  tenants.     The 
French,  as  leader  of  the  nations,  centralize  in  their  cities  learn- 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  5 

ing,  education,  great  men  ;  they  make  an  immense  reservoir  of 
this  Paris  which  lies  beneath  us  ;  but  like  egotists  as  they  are, 
they  deny  the  crystal  waters  to  the  people,  whether  in  the 
country  or  in  the  towns,  and  thejT  do  right,  and  so  ignorance 
sterilizes  this  teeming  soil,  which,  cultivated  and  watered,  would 
produce  the  richest  fruits  instead  of  the  weeds  and  brambles 
which  we  now  see. 

—  And  who  can  this  necromantic,  savage,  ferocious  creature 
be,  that  lives  in  the  ruins  and  puts  these  people  in  such  fear  1 

—  We  shall  soon  solve  that  question  ;  but  I  have  little  doubt 
that  the  whole  story  is  fabulous — a  tale  of  witchcraft. 

As  they  said  this  they  approached  the  Paraclete  ;  it  was 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  sun  was  very  powerful, 
so  they  opened  their  umbrellas  to  screen  their  heads  from  his 
scorching  rays. 

—  Surely  this  is  the  only  way  to  the  monastery. 

—  It  must  be  so.     I  have  carefully  examined  the  horizon  ; 
all  the  rest  is  a  dense  wood.     What  ideas  rush   into  the  mind 
when  treading  a  spot  of  which  one  has  read  in  childhood,  with 
the  soul  suspended  between  pain  and  pleasure  !     Do  you  know 
that  in  view  of  the   celebrity   of  the   learned   Abelard,  whose 
name  was  in  the  twelfth  century  the  personification  of  know- 
ledge, I  cannot  but  wonder  to  see  the  errors  to  which  man  is 
exposed  ;   when  believing  himself  guided  by  reason,  he  is  but 
dragged  along  by  his  appetites. 

—  The  greatest  men  generally  commit  the  greatest  errors, 
particularly  when  woman  is  concerned 

The  flight  of  a  raven  which  slightly  touched  the  umbrella  of 
the  Count,  interrupted  this  dialogue,  and  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  two  travellers  to  the  crumbling  ogives  of  the  peris- 
tyle of  the  Paraclete.  They  went  on  in  silence,  searching  for 
some  place  where  they  might  enter  the  ruins  ;  when  presently 
they  heard  the  footsteps  of  a  man  at  some  distance  in  the  inte- 
rior of  that  abandoned  monastery.  They  looked  at  each  other : 
but  before  they  could  speak,  they  perceived  coming  towards 


6  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

them  a  man  truly  mysterious.  He  was  small  of  stature  ;  his 
head  hung  upon  his  shoulders,  his  neck  was  twisted  towards  the 
right,  the  cheek  resting  upon  the  collar-bone  ;  he  was  dressed 
in  a  blouse  ;  he  tottered  as  he  went,  and  on  his  breast,  he  car- 
ried a  picture,  the  subject  of  which  they  could  not  see  at  that 
distance.  This  mysterious  man  appeared  through  a  ruined 
window,  leaned  his  body  on  one  side  so  as  to  be  able  to  see 
them,  and  disappeared,  not  without  striking  terror  into  those 
who  had  seen  him.  The  travellers  looked  at  each  other,  and 
with  a  gesture  of  mutual  understanding  commenced  the  follow- 
ing dialogue  : 

—  This  must  be  the  monastery,  and  the  ruins  on  the  other 
side  the  church. 

—  That  which  was  the  church   has  perished  almost  to   its 
foundations,  while  the   monastery   remains  but  half  in  ruins  : 
here  Baron,  you  have  a  perfect  picture  of  the  actual  clergy  and 
church ;  the  latter  is  almost  demolished  by  the  ministers  who 
exercise  its  divine  authority  so  unworthily,   and    the    former 
meantime  sustain  themselves  well  enough,  because  they  think 
only  of  money-getting,  and  the  pursuits   of  ambition,  without 
troubling  themselves  about  the  decadent  church.     Poor  Abe- 
lard  !  Who  would  have  ventured  to  tell  him  that  the  refuge  he 
sought  against  the  barbarous  envy  of  his  enemies,  and  particu- 
larly  of  the  Canon,  uncle   of  Heloise,  would  one  day  see   the 
lizard  running,  and  wild  plants  growing  over  its  ruins  ?     Who 
would  have  believed  that  his  numerous  disciples,  and  the  fame 
he  left  behind  him,  would  have  been  insufficient  to  eternize  the 
Paraclete,    and   that  his  very  name  would  be  buried  in  obli- 
vion  

From  behind  a  massive  wall  clothed  with  parietaria,  ap- 
peared the  head  of  another  man.  tall,  thin,  pale,  with  large  blue 
eyes,  with  red  saffron-colored  beard  which  covered  his  cheeks, 
leaving  only  his  eyes  visible,  dressed  in  a  frock  coat  after  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  reaching  down  to  his  feet,  and  the  cloth  of 
which  shone  with  long  wear  upon  the  forearm  and  shoulder, 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  7 

who  with  his   eyes  riveted  on  the  strangers,  said  to  them  with 
honeyed  voice  and  flashing  eyes — 

—  Back,  gentlemen,  back ;  here  alone  live   I — a  poor  bot- 
anist. 

And  stretching  out  his  arm,  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to 
the  path  by  which  they  were  to  retire.  While  he  had  been 
speaking,  Kant  had  stood  contemplating  him  with  much  curi- 
osity, and  now  giving  way  to  his  recollections  he  exclaimed : 

—  Schmidt,  Schmidt,  don't  you  remember  me  ?  don't   you 
remember  Kant,  the  companion  of  your  studies  in  London,  the 
playmate  of  your  childhood  in  Wertemburg  ? 

The  man  to  whom  had  thus  been  given  the  name  of 
Schmidt,  passed  his  hands  across  his  eyes,  struck  with  his  palm 
his  broad  forehead,  and  with  a  gesture  of  delight  clasped  in  his 
arms  the  Count  Kant,  his  fellow-student  when  a  young  man  in 
London,  and,  though  Schmidt  was  the  older  of  the  two,  the  be- 
loved friend  of  his  childhood. 

After  the  first  transports  of  joy,  which  were  natural  upon 
the  reunion  of  those  who  had  loved  each  other  in  the  age  of 
truth,  the  tall  man  assumed  the  meditative  air  which  was 
habitual  to  him,  and  said  : 

—  Do  you  remember,  Kant,  the  first  time  that  the  philoso- 
pher of  Wertemburg,  the  profound  Grail,  explained    to   us  in 
London,  he  and  Spurzheim,  before  giving  them  to  the  light, 
their  investigations  upon  anatomy,  and  the  physiology  of  the 
nervous  system  ? 

—  I  remember  it. 

—  Do  you  remember  my  plans  for  the  future  ? 

—  Yes,  my  friend,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday. 

—  I  have  followed  them  all,  but  not  with  the  results  I  calcu- 
lated upon  at  that  epoch. 

—  What  have  you  accomplished  ? 

—  That  is  my  secret. 

Schmidt  stopped  short,  looked  at  the  Baron,  stepped  a 
little  aside,  and  whispered  to  his  friend. 


8  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  Who  ia  this  gentleman  that  comes  with  you  ? 

—  It  is  my  friend,  the  Baron  de  Vieux. 

—  The  Baron  de  Vieux !  .  .  .  .  ah  !  .  .  ah  ! 

The  countenance  of  Schmidt  assumed  a  peculiar  expression, 
as  he  repeated  several  times .  .  .  de  Vieux  !  .  .  .  .  de  Vieux  ! 
His  friend  Kant  could  distinguish  none  of  the  significance  of 
this  expression,  and  answered  him — 

—  Yes,  my  friend  the  Baron  de  Vieux. 

—  Then  I  am    sorry  I  cannot   speak  to  you  with  freedom. 
You  nobles  do  not  believe  the  science  of  the  plebeians. 

—  Schmidt,  you  do  not  know  the  Baron.     I  assure  you,  on 
my  word  of  honor,  he  is  worthy  of  your  highest  esteem. 

—  Very  good,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  I  can  confide  to 
him  a  secret. 

—  As  though  he  were  a  corpse,  or   the   ruins  on  which  we 
tread. 

Schmidt  looked  at  Kant  with  one  of  those  looks  that  go 
right  to  the  heart,  and  added  : 

—  Well,  I  will  confess  to  you  the  half  of  it. 

They  then  rejoined  the  Baron,  who  was  examining  the 
monumental  spot,  and  preceded  by  Schmidt,  they  directed  their 
steps  to  a  corridor,  which  doubtless  led  to  the  vaults  of  the 
Paraclete.  Let  us  follow  them,  treading  in  their  steps,  and  ob- 
serving all  that  surrounded  them,  in  the  same  silence  that  they 
kept. 

This  corridor  was  a  dark  passage,  whose  arched  ceiling 
might  defy  yet  another  eight  centuries,  with  its  five  layers 
of  bricks ;  and  it  was  so  dark  that  it  could  not  be  entered  with 
confidence  by  any  one  who  was  not  accustomed  to  pass  through 
it  many  times  a  day.  After  some  three  or  four  minutes  they 
began  to  descend,  not  a  staircase,  but  a  declivity  worn  smooth, 
at  the  end  of  which  light  was  perceivable.  They  raised  their 
heads,  and  saw  the  rays  of  the  sun  penetrating  a  dense  mass  of 
foliage,  which  covered  the  topmost  peaks  of  the  ruined  edifice. 
A  Picardy  sheep-dog,  with  intelligence  beaming  in  his  counte- 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  9 

nance,  was  lying  at  the  door  of  a  kind  of  apartment  to  the  left, 
and  as  soon  as  he  observed  the  presence  of  strangers,  he  fixed 
his  eyes  on  Schmidt,  as  though  asking  him  what  he  was  to  do. 
His  friend  indicated  by  a  signal  that  he  was  to  remain  quiet,  which 
seen  by  the  intelligent  animal,  he  returned  to  his  first  position, 
resting  his  chin  on  his  fore-paws.  Schmidt  opened  the  door, 
and  invited  his  guests  to  enter  that  strange  inclosure.  Before 
a  word  is  spoken,  we  will  describe  what  they  saw,  and  which 
held  them  in  breathless  awe. 


CHAPTER  II. 

ONE  who  has  seen  a  South  American  market,  where  meat  is  ex- 
posed for  sale,  upon  filthy  planks  laid  on  the  ground,  swarming 
with  large  blue  flies,  which  make  it  teem  with  maggots, 
may  form  an  approximative  idea  of  the  place  we  are  treading. 
Pieces  of  flesh,  violet,  black,  mulberry-red,  mangled  brains  sepa- 
rated into  their  several  compartments,  livid  viscera,  greenish 
liver,  whitened  lungs  with  black  spots,  crania  full  of  holes, 
^skulls  sawn  in  pieces,  heads  of  animals  of  different  species 
heaped  in  a  corner,  purulent  marrow,  a  fetid  smell  half  cam 
phorate,  mephitic  miasms  mixed  with  divers  pharmaceutical 
odors,  were  the  first  body  of  the  horrid  picture  the  Count  and  the 
Baron  were  observing.  Then  in  course  of  dissection  were  hearts 
with  the  great  arteries  and  veins  that  communicate  with  them ; 
great  aortas,  lungs,  tracheae,  bronchi,  venae  cavae,  right  and  left 
ventricles  of  the  heart,  tricuspid  valves,  stomachs,  pulmonary 
arteries,  viscera,  thoraces,  spleens,  abdomens,  oesophagi,  bladders, 
pancreata,  mcsenteric  veins  and  globules,  arteries,  absorbent  ves- 
sels, superior  venae  cavae,  and  an  infinity  of  other  integral  parts 
of  the  human  body,  some  blackened,  others  greenish,  these  in 
bottles,  those  half  fresh,  and  some  almost  palpitating.  This  was 
the  second  body  of  the  fearful  tableau.  On  one  side,  hanging  on 
a  beam,  were  skeletons  of  men  and  of  women,  skinned  and  dis- 
sected with  all  their  members — wonderful  work  of  scientific  pa- 
tience. A  little  further,  a  complete  chemical  laboratory,  but 


THE  B  UWS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  \ 

equally  horrible  for  filth,  full  of  bones,  blood,  and  pieces  of 
flesh  ;  the  horrid  nausea  excited  by  which  made  the  nerves  re- 
coil. The  chamber  was  of  great  size,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
the  inhabitant  of  this  cavern  must  be  the  Secretary  of  Death, 
or  the  universal  executioner  in  his  workshop,  who,  after  the 
Spanish  fashion  of  forty  years  ago,  was  frying  the  members  of 
quartered  criminals,  or  cutting  them  in  pieces  to  expose  them 
in  iron  cages  at  the  cross-roads,  in  order  thus  to  announce  to 
the  passers  by  the  barbarism  of  human  justice  ! 

Schmidt  had  fallen  into  a  profound  reverie,  while  Kant  and 
de  Vieux  felt  their  hairs  standing  on  end  at  the  contemplation 
of  so  infernal  a  laboratory.  Had  either  of  them  been  asked 
where  they  were,  they  would  have  fled  at  the  sound  of  a  human 
voice.  It  has  cost  us  some  moments  to  describe  all  this,  but 
their  vision  embraced  the  whole  in  a  very  few  seconds,  at  the 
end  of  which  was  heard  a  cry  as  of  a  human  being.  Schmidt 
made  a  satanic  gesture  and  set  off  running  to  the  bottom  of  the 
cavern,  which  movement  made  the  travellers  start  back  twice 
with  fear  ;  their  knees  knocked  together,  their  pallid  counte- 
nances expressing  the  terror  which  agitated  their  hearts. 

Man  is  so  much  the  child  of  his  senses,  that  in  certain  cases 
it  is  necessary  to  materialize  the  moral  disorders  in  order  that 
they  may  produce  on  him  a  beneficial  effect.  The  preceptor  may 
tire  himself  out  in  vain  counselling  youth  to  govern  and  not 
succumb  to  their  brutal  appetites ;  he  may  make  a  thousand  re- 
flections, and  hold  up  before  them  a  thousand  examples  ;  he  may 
instil  into  them  a  thousand  maxims,  all  will  be  useless ;  but 
let  him  take  his  pupils  to  one  of  those  hospitals  where  are  to  be 
seen  the  ravages  effected  by  debauch  ;  where  they  may  witness 
the  fatal  consequences  of  vice,  of  intoxication,  of  gluttony ;  let 
him  lift  up  the  bloody  and  nauseous  sheets ;  let  him  expose  to 
view  the  apparatus  that  inflicts  the  surgical  incision ;  let  him 
cause  the  groans  of  the  patient,  perhaps  in  the  flower  of  his  age, 
to  fall  upon  their  ears  ;  let  him  set  before  their  fearful  gaze  the 
monstrosities  produced  by  vice,  and  the  youths  will  be  seen  to 


12  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

return  from  the  terrible  couch  with  the  muscles  of  the  face 
contracted,  the  hair  all  on  end,  the  stomach  nauseated,  and, 
what  is  of  most  consequence,  with  an  extreme  horror  at  the 
possibility  of  falling  into  such  a  situation.  This  is  not  a  sys- 
tem of  terror — no,  but  of  practical  persuasion,  one  of  sound  rea- 
son ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  said  that  physicians  are  every  day  in 
such  scenes  and  are  yet  no  more  moral  than  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, because  it  may  be  replied  that  it  is  an  injustice  to  the 
faculty  to  suppose  them  immoral ;  for  though  the  generality  of 
them  are,  if  you  will,  materialists,  they  show  by  their  conduct 
that  the  sight  of  such  pictures,  if  it  does  not  lead  them  reli- 
giously to  preserve  themselves  from  debauch,  at  least  creates 
in  their  minds  an  inveterate  antipathy  to  vice,  which  restrains 
them  from  falling  victims  to  it  with  so  much  frequency  as  the 
rest  of  men  who  do  not  witness  such  "disenchantmcnts. 

In  the  absence  of  Schmidt,  Kant  and  de  Vieux.  petrified  with 
astonishment,  stood  motionless  as  statues,  capable  only  for  a  long 
time  of  regarding  each  other  with  bewildered  eyes.  It  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  two  men  of  the  world,  as  those  are  gene- 
rally called  who  have  passed  their  youth  in  levities,  remained 
at  such  a  moment  awe-stricken  in  the  midst  of  their  no  vulgar 
attainments.  There  are  certain  scenes  invented  either  by  wick- 
edness, or  scientific  fanaticism,  or  superstition,  or  the  misled 
judgment  of  men,  which  we  in  vain  strive  to  imagine,  and  to 
which  we  can  much  less  make  ourselves  superior.  Under  this 
influence,  greater  doubtless  than  the  magnetic  power  of  Joseph 
Balsamo,  they  found  themselves,  when  Schmidt  returned  rub- 
bing his  hands,  in  a  meditative  air.  Kant  could  not  help  draw- 
ing back,  and  saying : 

—  Schmidt,  what  arc  these  horrors?  what  workshop  of  Satan 
have  you  chosen  for  your  operations?  what  cry  was  that? 

—  Ka  !   ha  '  ha  !  ....  it  is  but  the  laboratory  of  a  poor  ph}r- 
sician. 

The  three  relapsed  into  silence.  The  strangers  cast  another 
glance  at  these  terrible  remains  of  humanity,  and  the  Franco- 


THE  K  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  1 3 

German  inclined  his  head.  The  frontal  arteries  throbbed  con- 
vulsively, the  lower  lip  projected,  and  shrugging  his  shoulders 
he  directed  himself  to  Kant : 

—  Then  you  ....  and  this  gentleman  ....  are  astonished  at 
my  house  ? 

—  But,  my  friend,  who  would  not  be  horrified  at  such  a  sight 
and  such  cries  ? 

—  I,  you,  and  this  gentleman,  if  I  explained  it  to  you. 

—  Say,  Schmidt,  say  for  what  end  you  have  collected  such 
putrescent  masses,  and  live  in  the  midst  of  such  sad  cries  ? 

—  To  give  life  to  half  a  world. 

—  To   give  life  ! — exclaimed  de  Vieux,  a  little  recovered 
from  his  amazement,  —  to  give  life  ! 

—  Yes,  M.  de  Vieux,  to  give  life. 

—  And  how  will  you  give  life  if  these  miasms  take  away 
your  own,  Schmidt  ? 

—  Oh  !    these  miasms  do  not  inflict  death,  those  which  kill 
are  those  you  respire  in  Paris  and  other  cities,  moral  cesspools 
whose  vapors  stifle. 

The  extraordinary  man  rose  up,  strode  two  steps,  took  a  bugle, 
drew  from  it  two  prolonged  sounds,  Ho-o-o-o, ....  ho-o-o-o  !  .  .  .  . 
turned  and  sat  down,  and  placed  the  horn  between  his  knees. 
Inexplicable  to  the  strangers  was  all  that  passed  under  their  eyes, 
and  but  for  the  ancient  friendship  of  Kant  and  Schmidt,  the 
noble  German,  as  well  as  the  Frenchman,  would  have  quitted  the 
vaults  of  the  Paraclete,  never  again  to  set  their  feet  within  them. 
The  extraordinary  physician  had  made  signs  to  them  with  his 
hand  that  he  expected  some  one,  and  that  they  were  to  keep 
silence,  and  while  the  person  came  whom  he  had  thus  called,  he 
struck  the  floor  with  the  bloody  bugle-horn  as  though  beating 
time  to  music.  Footsteps  were  heard  as  of  a  person  walking 
slowly,  the  pallid  features  of  the  host  of  those  ruins  were  dilated, 
the  os  hyoidcs  rose  and  fell  quickly  with  the  pleasure  he  was 
experiencing,  he  could  not  swallow  the  saliva  fast  enough.  The 
door  opened.  The  man  who  presented  himself  before  them 


14  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

was  the  same  wry-necked  humpback  whom  they  had  seen  before 
the  appearance  of  Schmidt.  Our  readers  know  him  already, 
but  they  do  not  know  what  he  had  hanging  at  his  breast.  On 
seeing  him  Kant  and  de  Vieux  rose  involuntarily  from  the 
blocks  of  wood,  for  they  could  not  be  called  benches,  whereon 
they  were  seated,  and  stepped  back  with  demonstrations  of  hor- 
ror. What  was  it  they  saw  !  Let  us  with  them  fix  our  eyes  upon 
that  painting.  It  is  a  picture  a  foot  long,  whereon  is  seen  a 
gallows,  and  a  man  struggling  in  the  agonies  of  strangulation 
between  the  knees  of  the  hangman.  It  bore  an  inscription  in 
Spanish,  saying,  "  Jose  Feliu,  wonderfully  saved."  Schmidt 
smiled  to  see  the  two  nobles  so  terrified,  and  after  giving  them 
time  to  contemplate  Jose  Feliii.  said  to  the  condemned : 

—  Jos£,  my  son,  go  in  and  look  to  that and  do  not 

let  it  move. 

The  wry-neck  went  out,  dragging  his  disjointed  legs,  to  the 
bottom  of  the  cave,  whence  had  proceeded  the  terrible  cry. 

—  What  is  this,  Schmidt,  what  is  this  ? 

—  A  poor  worthy  fellow,  whom  in  the  year  '27  the  Conde  de 
Espana.  that  tormentor  of  Catalonia,  had  hanged  in  Barcelona  for 
a  liberal,  as  the  monster  said,  whom  I,  being  in  the  city,  begged 
after  the  execution,  and  whom  I  have  been  able  to  restore  to  life. 

—  And  how  ? 

—  You  must  have  read  it  in  the  periodicals  of  the  time. 
Schmidt  was   one    of  those  wonders   of  science,  to  whom 

nothing  attained  appears  worthy  of  admiration  compared  with 
what  they  have  yet  to  learn,  and  this  ever  recedes  as  they  go 
along  towards  the  infinite  horizon  of  science ;  so  he  would 
make  no  further  answer. 

—  This  is  truly  horrible. 

—  It  is  fearful,  added  de  Vieux. 

—  But  what  is  there  horrible  and  fearful,  gentlemen ;  the 
sight  of  bones  and  dissected  flesh,  and  of  a  man  whom  I  have 
saved,  and  who  out  of  gratitude  will  not  abandon  the  picture 
which  represents  his  sufferings  and  happy  end?     Bah!  gentle- 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PAR  A  CLETE.  \  5 

men,  what  you  call  horrible  has  nothing  in  it  but  the  sublime 
and  holy !  It  is  plain  ....  the  nobles  .... 

—  Come,  Schmidt,  pardon  my  first  emotion  ;  since  we  are  not 
accustomed  to  see  sages  like  you,  nor  cabinets  so  artistically 
decorated,   it    has  made  an  impression  on  us  ;    for  you  know 
though  I  have  studied  somewhat,  it  has  been  only  for  pastime, 
and  the  Baron  knows  only  the  anatomy  of  Love,  and  the  remains 
of  hearts  analyzed  in  cups  of  Louis  d'Or. 

—  Aye  !  Aye  ! 

—  Let  us  leave  this,  now,  and  tell  us  how  it  is  you  are  here. 
I  left  you  in  London  in  the  year — the  year  '29,  seven  years 
ago,  more  or  less,  is  it  not  so  ? 

The  man  of  science  gave  an  affirmative  sign. 

—  Come,  tell  us  what  has  happened  to  you  that  you  should 
have   formed   the    determination   to   live  amongst    the    dead. 
Speak,  the  Baron  de  Vieux  is  but  to  me  another  self. 

The  mysterious  man  opened  his  large  blue  eyes  and  looked 
at  Kant,  then  at  the  Baron,  and  smiled.  The  glance  which  he 
cast  upon  de  Vieux  made  the  hair  of  the  latter  stand  on  end, 
though  he  knew  not  why  ;  the  sea-blue  eyes  of  Schmidt  caused 
an  ocean  of  time  to  rush  over  his  soul ;  but  this  impression  was 
effaced,  as  the  furrow  traced  by  one  wave  is  obliterated  by  the 
larger  succeeding  one  which  rolls  over  it,  as  he  gazed  at  the 
smile  of  the  extraordinary  physician. 

—  My  history  ....  ah  !  it  is  related  in  two  words. 
Schmidt  twisted  his  fingers  in  his  hand,  beginning  with  the 

smallest  and  finishing  with  the  thumb.  In  his  countenance 
there  was  nothing  that  could  be  deciphered  ;  it  was  as  a  parch- 
ment from  which  time  had  effaced  all  that  in  youth  might  have 
been  read  there  ;  but  one  who  had  studied  the  rising  and  falling 
of  the  os  hyoides  might  have  detected  that  something  extraordi- 
nary agitated  his  breast. 

—  Come,  tell  us  those  two  words  ;  I  repeat  that  the  Baron  is 
but  an  alter  ego. 

A  flash  darted  out  from  the  intelligent  eyes  of  Schmidt. 
The  Baron  added  : 


16  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  If  my  presence  .... 

—  No,  M.  de  Vieux,   no,  your  presence  cannot   but  be  a 
pleasure  to  me.     I  will  relate  in  a  few  words  my  history  from 
that   time.      From   London  I  passed   to   Paris,  in   search   of 
Science  ;  from  Paris  I  went  to  Bremen,  to  Dresden,  to  Berlin — 
in  search  of  Science  ;  thence  I  returned  to  France,  and,  being, 
as  Kant  knows,  poor,  and  the  son  of  a  husbandman,  I  sought  to 
make  myself  a  name  ;   because  the  middle  class,  destitute   of 
parchments  and  coats  of  arms,  seeks  its  trophies  in  science,  in 
intelligence,  which  is  the  greatest  nobleness  next  to  genuine  vir- 
tue, and  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all,  since  without  intelligence  it  is 
impossible  to  be  truly  virtuous  . . .  begging  your  pardon,  my  Lords. 
Not  being  able  to  live  in  Paris,  for  particular  reasons,  I  sought 
an  asylum  in  these  ruins,  to  dedicate  myself  entirely  to  inves- 
tigations which  might  make  me  a  name,  and  make  me  forget 
....  my  first  disenchantments,  my  first  attempts,  and  I  have  suc- 
ceeded.    Behold  my  history  ! 

—  But  now  before  we  go  into  details  as  to  that  which  sur- 
rounds us,  if  I  mistake  not,  it  seems  to  me  that  in  the  year 
'20,  in  Werteinburg,  you  had  a  family,  wife  and  daughter. 

Schmidt  bit  his  inferior  lip,  and  added  with  a  gesture  of  in- 
difference :  —  Yes,  they  died  in  '22. 

—  And  how  have  you  been  able  to  amass  so  many  skeletons, 
such  heaps  of  flesh,  so  many  corpses  ?     What  discoveries  have 
you  made  ?     Speak,  my  dear  friend,  speak.     You  have  put  me 
into  a  burning  impatience  ;  what  does  all  this  mean  ? 

Schmidt  arose  from  his  seat,  went  to  the  beam  where  the 
skeletons  were  hanging,  and  taking  one  by  the  vertebral  column, 
said  : 

—  This  is  my  wife. 

The  two  aristocrats  moved  uneasily  upon  their  chairs.  Kant 
said  :  —  Horrible  ! 

He  who  had  just  shown  the  remains  of  her  who  had  made 
him  father,  continued,  without  visible  emotion  : 

—  This  is  my  daughter,  the  only  one  I  had. 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  7 

Kant  and  de  Vieux  arose  and  drew  back. 
The  Gallo-German,  imperturbable,  continued  : 

—  These   are   two  celebrated  murderers,  who   were   guillo- 
tined at  Troyes  ;  this  is  the  most  lascivious  man  that  ever  en- 
tered the  Hospital  Val  de  Grace  at  Paris  ;   this  is  the  woman 
most  insatiable  of  pleasures  that  ever  trode  Marseilles,  daughter 
of  the  Terrace  behind  the  Theatre  ;  this  is  a  robber,  essence  of 
Caco,  or  spirit  of  a  usurer  ;   this  is  a  soldier  of  the  army  of  Al- 
giers ;   this  is  a  cure,  who  passed  for  a  saint,  and  was  more 
voluptuous   than   a   monkey  ;    this  belonged    to   a   negro,  who 
would  have  become  a  prodigy  of  intelligence  ;   this  is  one  of  a 
girl,  type  of  sensuality  ;    why  should  I   add  more  ?     All   are 
celebrities,  each  in  his  own  line. 

The  nobles  were  petrified  with  amazement  at  the  sang-froid 
of  this  Galen. 

—  And  how  have  you  obtained  a  collection  of  notabilities  so 
numerous  ?    What  have  you  gathered  from  your  study  ?    With- 
out doubt  Gall  and  Spurzheim  will  fall  into  the  background 
when  you  give  to  light  investigations  so  profound  ?     Speak,  the 
Baron  and  myself  are  enthusiasts  of  Phrenology. 

—  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Phrenology  is  a  hypothesis,  and  will  never 
attain  a  higher  rank  ;    by  it  some  phenomena  can,  in  certain 
cases,  be   explained  ;    but  Science  hides  itself  in  the  cerebral 
sinuosities,  and  is  confounded  by  the  spirituality  of  the  princi- 
ple  that  animates  those  wonderful  caverns.     To  attempt  the 
explanation  of  the  mysteries  of  Nature  by  arguments  so  elastic, 
so   to  speak,  as  those  of  Gall,  Spurzheim,  Salandier,  Lavater, 
Cabanis,  &c.,  is  to  fight  against  truth,  to  debase  the  judgment. 

—  And  why  are  you  so  opposed  to  Phrenology  ?     How  is  it 
that  you  have  changed  ?     How  can  you  deny  what  we  have  to- 
gether seen  in  London  ? 

—  Sit  down,  and  we  will  talk. 

It  is  necessary  to  pause  here  and  observe  the  sage,  the  ter- 
rible man,  who  at  53  years  seemed  to  be  a  septuagenarian,  so 
much  had  he  studied  !  .  .  or  so  much  had  he  suffered  !  ...  or 


18  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

perhaps  both  these  causes  had  combined  so  to  wear  him  out ! 
His  kingdom  was  knowledge  ;  in  reflecting  upon  the  human  body 
his  countenance  became  radiant,  his  features  dilated,  his  eyes 
sparkled,  his  hands  spoke,  torrents  poured  from  his  lips,  his  head 
was  elevated  with  a  philosophic  enthusiasm.  Then  Schmidt  was 
like  a  miser  passing  in  review  his  bags  of  gold  ;  or  an  artist  in 
that  blissful  moment,  when  he  has  been  permitted  for  the  first 
time  to  touch  with  transient  kiss  the  lips  of  his  beloved ;  or  a 
conquering  hero  who,  in  the  midst  of  the  battle-field,  plucks 
the  decorations  from  his  own  person  to  distribute  to  his  brave 
soldiers  around  him  ;  or  a  tragedian,  who,  in  the  height  of  his 
triumph,  sees  his  audience  weep  in  the  midst  of  their  applause, 
while  they  throw  chaplets  at  his  feet ;  or  the  orator,  who  is  ex- 
citing by  his  sympathetic  eloquence  to  heroic  deeds ;  or  the 
mother,  who,  from  the  wrecking  ship,  receives  her  only  son  in 
her  arms,  snatched  from  the  abyss  which  stood  ready  to  ingulf 
him  before  her  eyes.  All  this  and  more  was  Schmidt.  His 
central  point  was  that  elementary  being  called  by  Leibnitz  the 
monad,  his  throne  was  the  human  body,  his  atmosphere  the 
soul,  his  court  the  secrets  which  environ  those  two  substances. 
Schmidt,  before  speaking,  poured  forth  a  deep  breath  as  though 
animating  worlds  of  intelligence  around  him.  Oh  !  Schmidt 
was  terribly  beautiful.  The  two  nobles  gazed  with  admiration 
upon  the  metamorphosis  undergone  by  the  extraordinary  being 
before  them  ;  they  hoped  to  hear  great  things,  to  see  wonders. 
He,  while  they  looked  upon  him,  drew  himself  up,  passed  his 
large  fingers  rapidly  through  his  fast  failing  hair,  opened  wide 
his  eyes,  as  though  seeking  to  penetrate  the  abyss  thence  to 
draw  out  light,  respired  deeply,  looked  at  his  guests,  searching 
in  their  eyes  to  see  if  their  souls  were  coming  out  at  those  win- 
dows to  hear  what  he  was  about  to  say : 

—  Phrenology  !  Poor  alphabet  of  an  imagined  science  !  The 
soul  and  the  body,  the  spiritual  and  the  physical  strength, 
what  relation  have  they  ?  How  do  they  communicate  with  each 
other?  How  do  those  two  contraries  unite ?  It  is  a  mystery. 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  19 

The  configuration  of  the  skull,  the  sinuosities,  the  protuber- 
ances, the  organs  which  are  more  than  thirty-seven  in  number, 
those  conductors  of  external  sensations,  those  cameras  obscuroe 
which  represent  that  which  is  without,  that  which  we  feel,  that 
which  we  desire,  that  which  we  hate,  that  which  we  imagine, 
that  which  we  idealize  !  .  .  .  .  the  soul  subject  to  the  mechanism 
of  the  body  !  Error  !  The  same  organ,  the  same  protuberance, 
which  in  man  they  call  Destructiveness,  is  in  the  wolf  an  impe- 
rious incitement  to  devour  the  lamb  for  his  sustenance ;  the 
same  organ,  of  assassination  in  man,  makes  the  goat  eat  grass, 
the  bird  feed  on  seeds,  the  insect  live  on  air.  To  say  that 
all  destroy  is  to  give  such  elasticity  to  science,  that  it  is  re- 
duced to  a  mere  pretence.  Intelligence  based  on  configuration 
or  volume  !  Nonsense  !  A  bird,  a  canary,  a  parrot,  learn  to  do 
marvellous  things,  are  superior  to  other  animals  a  hundred 
times  their  size,  from  whose  brains  might  be  made  a  dozen 
linnets,  three  or  four  parrots,  or  half  a  score  of  canaries.  It  is 
not  volume  that  we  must  consider,  it  is  activity.  The  inclina- 
tions of  man.  his  moral  part,  boxed  up  in  protuberances  and 
sinuosities  !  Sheer  madness !  A  mass  as  of  20  with  3  degrees 
of  activity  or  velocity,  is  the  same  as  a  mass  of  3  with  20  de- 
grees of  activity  or  velocity ;  this  is  an  incontestable  principle 
of  mechanics.  How  do  the  phrenologists  pretend  to  support 
themselves  upon  it,  or  to  evade  its  force  ?  The  phrenologists 
consider  the  brain  only  as  a  material  organ ;  this  element  alone 
proves  nothing ;  it  is  necessary  to  consider  whether  we  can 
measure  the  activity  which  animates  it.  And  who  will  measure 
the  soul  of  man?  Who  has  entered  this  world  full  of  dark- 
ness ?  Who  has  penetrated  into  this  breath  of  God  ?  Oh  !  the 
soul  of  man  has  an  activity  like  that  which  with  a  breath  ani- 
mated the  statue  of  clay  as  it  lay  by  the  banks  of  the  river  of 
Paradise  !  Oh  !  phrenology  is  a  charlatanism !  I,  with  my 
own  hands,  have  lifted  up.  broken,  severed  in  pieces,  examined 
even  palpitating  the  frontal,  parietal,  occipital,  sphenoid,  tem- 
poral and  ethmoid  bones;  have  fixed  upon  the  quivering  brains 


20  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

my  greedy  eyes ;  have  fatigued  myself  with  comparing  heads  of 
men  and  of  animals  ;  have  perforated  heads  of  men  and  women, 
of  children  and  the  aged ;  have  removed  this  coverlet  of  their 
brains,  and  seen  this  mass  of  their  thought  trembling  in  the  pal- 
pitations of  death  ;  have  endeavored  to  seize  the  soul  that  \v;is 
escaping  me  ;  their  heads  have  drooped,  their  brains  have  fallen 
on  the  floor,  the  soul,  the  power  of  activity,  has  fled  to  Heaven  ; 
how  I  by  what  road  ?  where  had  it  been  *  which  was  its  seat : 
Oh  !  phrenology  .  .  .  . ! 

—  Schmidt !     Schmidt !    are  you   a    monster,  a    murderer, 
a  ? 

—  Hear  me,  Kant,  before  you  judge  ;  you  say  that  I  am  a 
murderer  because  I  have  killed  some  dozens  of  men  and  women 
in  order  to  save  many,  to  aid  the   progress  of  science,  to  gain 
knowledge,  to  hasten  the  reign  of  intelligence  :  hear  my  answer, 
then  I  will  go  on  with  phrenology.   You  have  called  me  an  assas- 
sin because  I  have  searched  for  knowledge,  not  for  myself,  but 
for  the  solace  of  human  kind,  for  the  amelioration  of  entire  hu- 
manity ;  and  what  title  will  you  give  to  the  monarch  who  causes 
thousands  of  men  to  die  on  the  field  of  battle,  for  an  imaginary 
and  dreamed-of  right  which  he  calls  divine,  that  of  subjugating 
his  fellows  ?     We  need  not  go  back  to  the  wars  of  succession  in 
Spain,  nor  turn  over  the  pages  of  history  to  cull  odious  names; 
let  us  look  at  the  fratricidal  war  which  the  Spaniards  are  waging 
against  each  other  for  that  poor  mannikin  of  the  Jesuits,  Don 
Carlos,  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other,  Donna  Isabella,  that 
little  innocent,  knowing  as  yet  nothing  but  how  to  play  with  her 
dolls  !     If  }'ou  call  me  a  murderer  because  I  have,  without  one 
selfish  consideration,  seen  a  few  expire  for  the  sake  of  the  many, 
what  name  will  you  give  to  Napoleon,  and  to  all  the  sanguinary 
cohort  of  ambitious  conquerors  whom  men  call  heroes  ?     How 
will  you  designate  those  worshippers  of  Mammon,  who  with  ca- 
pacious throat  devour  the  goods  of  their  fellows,  causing  them  to 
die  of  misery  through  their  infamous  usury,  usurpation,  and  fraud  ? 
What  appellation  do  those  rulers  deserve  who  suffer  the  people 


THE  ItUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  21 

to  fight  in  the  streets  for  a  name — call  it  king  or  liberty — strew- 
ing the  ground  with  corpses  ?  What  names  will  you  invent  for 
the  priests  and  monks,  who  in  past  centuries — and  they  are 
fully  disposed  to  do  the  same  now — have  lighted  the  fires  of  the 
Inquisition,  sacrificing  not  to  God,  who  hates  victims,  but  to 
their  own  stupid  superstition,  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  per- 
haps millions  of  men?  For  this  the  people  rise  against  them, 
and  shoot  them  even  in  the  churches,  as  you  have  seen  now  quite 
recently  in  Madrid  and  Barcelona,  paying  them  with  brutal 
fanaticism  of  liberty  for  their  own  religious  fanaticism  of  op- 
pression. "  Pie  that  takes  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword." 
What  will  you  call  those  ignorant  physicians  who  daily  send 
thousands  to  the  tomb  ? — or  those  reckless  merchants,  who  in 
their  unscrupulous  thirst  for  gain,  make  the  sea  a  sepulchre  to 
thousands  of  noble  hearts  ?  And  if  from  the  material,  of  which 
plenty  more  remains  to  be  said,  we  turn  to  the  moral,  what 
language  can  you  invent  justly  to  characterize  those  murderers, 
the  great  and  the  rich,  who  abuse  their  position  to  defile  the 
bed  of  the  unhappy  son  of  the  people,  to  sacrifice  the  virtue  of 
its  daughters,  to  destroy  the  peace  of  proletarian  families  for 
the  accomplishment  of  their  nefarious  designs  ?  By  what  term 
can  you  rightly  name  those  deaths  which  are  entailed  by  the 
selfish  upon  the  honest  poor,  by  demagogues  upon  the  incautious 
people,  by  immoral  and  sophistical  writers  upon  their  un- 
happy readers,  by  journalists  upon  the  nations  ?  What  can  I 
say  to  you,  Kant,  what  can  I  say  to  you?  You,  yourself,  this 

gentleman yes,    this    gentleman and    others    that 

occupy  similar  situations,  answer :  what  names  do  those  whom 
I  have  described,  and  others  whom  to  save  myself  hateful  recol- 
lections I  will  not  mention,  deserve,  who,  not  for  the  good  of 
the  community,  but  for  their  own ;  not  for  the  love  of  science, 
but  for  their  brutal  appetites ;  not  from  enthusiasm  for  knowledge, 
but  for  the  sake  of  the  most  petty  worldly  considerations,  kill, 
destroy,  immolate  ?  No,  my  friend,  no,  do  not  call  me  an  as- 
sassin because  I  have  killed  a  few  for  the  good  of  all,  and 


22  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

through  whose   deaths   I   have  found  a  remedy  for  a  thousand 
ills. 

The  eccentric  man  inclined  his  head,  and  clasping  his  hands, 
a  tear  ran  down  his  saffron-colored  beard  and  moustachio. 
Kant  and  de  Vieux  could  not  take  off  their  eyes  from  him.  lost 
as  they  were  in  the  profound  thought  his  extraordinary  reason- 
ing excited.  On  seeing  him  weep,  his  old  class-mate  was  melt- 
ed, and  falling  on  his  neck,  said : 

—  Pardon  me,  sage  friend,  pardon  me,  I  have  given  you  a 
name  you  do  not  deserve ;   Kant  admires  you ;   Kant  calls  you 
now  in  adult  years  more  than  in  infancy,  the  friend  of  his  heart. 
Kant  is  a  fool,  who  trembles  at  a  few  deaths,  and  does  not  con- 
sider the  thousands  around  him. 

There  was  a  prolonged  silence,  during  which  strange  things 
might  have  been  remarked,  if  each  had  not  been  absorbed  in 
the  thoughts  which  beclouded  him  ;  the  solemn  stillness  was  at 
length  interrupted  by  Kant,  who  said,  addressing  himself  to 
Schmidt : 

—  Well,  my  dear  and  wise  friend,  I  concede  that  your  end 
justifies  the  means ;  continue  now  your  exposition  of  the  prodi- 
gious discoveries  resulting  from  your  studies. 

The  Gallo-Germau  recovered  himself  in  appearance  from 
the  abstraction  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  replied  in  a  casual 
manner  : 

—  Think  you  not  the  obscure  Schmidt  wept  when  he  heard 
the  cries   of  his  victims  ?     Do  you  not  judge  that  his  heart- 
strings broke  when  he  caused  the  convulsions  of  death,  when  he 
put  his  face   into  the  reeking  entrails  of  those  whom  he   im- 
molated?    Has  he  not  grown  old  with  suffering?    But  Schmidt 
had  cruel  pains  to  forget,  Schmidt  had  to  devour  his  most  beau- 
tiful sentiments ;  and  it  was  by  force  of  suffering  that  Schmidt 
cast  himself  into  the   unfathomable  abyss  of  science,  whose  in- 
finity threw  him  into  ecstasies  till  he  was  even  beside  himself; 
Sdunidt  looked  at  humanity,  and  preferred  repaying  the  evil  he 
had  suffered  with  good,  to  taking  vengeance  on  those  who  had 


THE  KUIA'S  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  23 

outraged  him.  Please  God  even  the  names  of  these  men  shall 
be  forgotten  in  order  that  all  mankind  may  be  loved 

The  man  who  an  hour  ago  appeared  a  genius  of  the  intellec- 
tual heaven,  sunk  to  the  material  earth — to  the  abode  of  mor- 
tality. 

The  Baron  de  Vieux  ventured  to  address  him : 

—  Mons.  Schmidt,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  lay  aside 
these  recollections,  and  continue  for  the  benefit  of  our  intelli- 
gence the  exposition  of  your  vast  discoveries  in  relation  to  Cra- 
niology  ?     You  have  so  much  interested  me 

Schmidt  again  surrounded  himself  with  the  luminous  atmos- 
phere in  which  he  had  but  just  now  been  swimming,  and  im- 
pelled afresh  by  Kant,  commenced  thus  : 

—  God  is  not  as  men  :  with  him  there  is  no  distinction  of 
persons ;  justice    is  one   of  his   highest    attributes  :    the  souls 
of  all  men  come  from  his  hands  equal ;  he  creates  them  with 
equal  wisdom  ;  he  sends  them  with  equal  goodness  to  animate 
the  material  part  of  man.     All  souls  possess  the  same  identical 
gifts  ;  all  enjoy  equal  activity  ;  all  are  endowed  with  the  same 
prodigious  power.     The  physician  more  than  all  others  is  ready 
to  acknowlege  the  existence  of  God  ;  for  he  beholds  wonders 
which  annihilate  his  arrogance  and  confound  his  comprehen- 
sion.    That  the  souls  of  all  rational  beings  must  be  equal,  is 
manifest ;  because  a  contrary  doctrine  robs  God  of  his  infinite 
and  wise  justice,  permitting  us  to  lift  up  our  necks  against  him, 
and  tell  him  that  he  has  made  a  distinction  of  persons.     The 
body  of  man  is  equal  in  all  the  human  race,  as  to  its  essential 
and  integral  parts,  if  not  in  that  which  pertains  to  accidentals. 
The  same  two  hundred  and  fifty-two  bones,  the  same  viscera, 
the  same  cartilages,  the   same  tendons,  the   same  arteries,  the 
same  nerves,  the  same  veins,  the  same  vessels,  the  same  fluids, 
the  same  cuticle,  the  same  epidermis,  the  same  members.     The 
differences  noted  in  the  races  are  accidental ;  for  the  most  part, 
they  are  the  result  of  education,  of  climate,  of  food,  and  an  in- 
finity of  other  circumstances  which  barbarism,  caprice,  fashion, 


24  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

ignorance,  have  invented  in  their  febrile  disorder.  The  Carib- 
bee  has  a  flattened,  the  negro  a  melon-shaped  cranium,  the  Chi- 
nese woman  feet  exceedingly  small,  and  other  accidentals  have 
sprung  from  what  I  have  just  mentioned  ;  but  in  the  essential. 
in  the  integral,  they  are  equal.  From  what  happens  it,  then, 
that  morally  they  are  so  dissimilar  ?  Is  it  in  the  manner  of 
looking  at  things?  Is  it  because  the  harmonies  of  all  ineirs 
bodies  are  not  alike  ?  Is  it  because  his  corporeal  and  intellec- 
tual activity  are  not  in  equilibrium  ?  It  may  be  affected  by 
this,  though  it  is  not  a  sure  rule  in  all  cases.  The  activity  of 
the  mind  is  the  same  in  all  cases — of  the  body  not  so.  because 
anima  omnis  carnis  in  sanguine  cjus  cst.  That  is,  the  activity 
of  the  corporeal  substance  is  in  the  blood.  That  does  not  mean, 
as  a  sect  of  philosophers  two  centuries  ago  interpreted  it,  that 
the  soul,  or  thinking  principle,  is  in  the  blood  ;  no,  the  thinking 
principle  may  be  in  the  head  or  in  the  whole  body,  that  is  yet  a 
mystery,  but  for  our  purpose  it  is  indifferent ;  what  is  meant  is, 
that  the  strength  of  the  physical  principle  is  in  the  blood.  On 
the  other  hand,  in  the  liquids  there  is  life,  in  the  solids  death. 
Moreover,  the  blood  is  like  the  sea  in  the  earth,  penetrating 
its  bowels,  vivifying  it,  moistening  it,  giving  it  sap  and 
aliment,  sending  out  its  waters  in  all  directions,  and  gathering 
them  together  again  in  its  capacious  bosom.  And  will  not 
the  purification,  or  empoisonmcnt  of  these  waters,  influence 
very  greatly  the  animal  economy,  which  by  a  yet  undisco- 
vered mystery  has  its  sympathies  with  the  spiritual  kingdom  ? 
Who  can  doubt  it  ?  Look  at  the  effects  produced  by  wine,  by 
opium  ;  and  look  at  the  opposite  effects  of  coffee.  The  former 
are  incitants  to  concupiscence,  the  latter  is  an  antiphrodysiac. 
This  stimulates  the  senses,  the  others  infuriate  them ;  this  de- 
lights, those  sadden  ;  this  gives  energy  to  the  body,  which  com- 
municates it  to  the  soul,  and  in  that  state  of  sur-excitation  man 
creates,  originates,  performs  wonders ;  the  others  enervate  the 
body,  which  drags  down  the  soul  to  a  participation  in  its  in- 
ertia and  depression,  till  it  finds  itself  enwrapped  in  stupidity. 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  25 

Sensual  vice,  in  some  cases  reduces  the  blood  as  it  were  to 
water,  in  others  it  envenoms  it.  In  the  first  case  it  causes 
idiocy  or  insanity ;  in  the  second,  generates  monstrosities. 
Yes,  gentlemen,  the  velocity,  the  activity  of  the  material  part 
of  man  is  the  blood ;  it  matters  not  that  the  brains  have  or 
have  not  this  or  that  configuration  ;  give  one  the  necessary  fluid 
having  qualities  of  the  kind  and  activity  of  the  power  required  by 
the  exigencies  of  the  particular  case  in  the  given  circumstances, 
and  you  shall  see  prodigies  of  intelligence,  of  virtue,  of  wicked- 
ness, of  vehement  passions.  It  is  not  to  be  believed  that  the 
soul  obeys  the  body ;  no,  she  is  the  queen,  she  dominates  ;  she 
but  allows  herself  to  be  subjected  in  abnormal  moments  ;  in  re- 
turning to  the  normal  state  she  reveals  her  power.  Gentlemen, 
my  secret  is  in  4he  blood,  my  discovery  I  bequeath  to  the 
world  under  the  name  of  "  The  Nervo-Sanguinco-nulri-imbibi- 
tive  Art."  Give  me  substances  proportionate,  analogous,  assi- 
milative to  the  conducting  organs,  the  principles  simple  or  com- 
pound which  touch  those  springs  of  sensibility  that  affect  the 
soul,  which  at  times  put  it  into  an  abnormal  state,  at  times 
equalize  its  forces,  and  behold  a  new  world  ;  behold  intelli- 
gence ;  behold  prodigies  of  every  kind.  For  what  doubt  can 
there  be  but  that  the  milk  which  the  babe  sucks  influences 
its  future  as  well  as  its  present  development?  What  doubt 
that  the  qualities  existing  in  certain  minerals,  certain  plants, 
certain  elements,  is  born  of  the  liquid  which  nourishes  them  ? 
What  doubt  that  the  aliments  change  the  nature,  the  tenden- 
cies, of  the  body,  and  influence  in  a  surprising  manner  the  rela- 
tion which  exists  between  it  and  the  soul  ?  What  doubt  that 
the  animal  education  changes  the  ideas  of  men  ?  What  doubt 
that  the  moral  part  is  affected  by  all  the  external  ?  Oh,  my 
friend  !  my  attempts  will  be  perfected  by  others  ;  their  results 
consigned  to  posterity,  and  science  will  have  gained  thousands  of 
leagues  in  its  spacious  horizon.  Transfusion,  transfusion  !  this 
is  the  prodigious  power,  whether  by  the  alimentary  canal,  by 


25  THE  T\YO  FATHERS. 

the  veins,  or  by  the  organs  which  directly  act  upon  the  intelli- 
gence. 

Here  the  admirable  man  arose,  drew  his  guests  nearer  to 
him  to  explain  to  them  mysteries,  marvels,  wonders,  whu-h  lu- 
had  discovered  in  the  analysis  of  the  human  structure.  Here 
there  was  an  entrail,  here  a  bone,  here  an  artery,  here  a  mem- 
brane, here  the  cerebral  cavity,  here  that  of  the  thorax,  here 
the  labyrinthine  nervous  system,  here  the  blood  of  various  be- 
ings rational  and  irrational,  here  the  caverns  of  the  cerebellum, 
here  the  globulous  mass  of  the  brains,  here  all  these  together, 
here  much  that  we  cannot  describe.  The  mysterious  beginnings 
of  life  enveloped  in  fluids,  like  the  world  in  the  hands  of  God, 
their  progression,  their  development,  the  ossification,  life,  the 
tendencies  of  the  being  about  to  see  the  light,  about  to  be 
bathed  in  another  atmosphere  as  fluid  yet  less  liquid,  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  its  life,  Schmidt  treats  of  all  with  a  freedom, 
a  facility,  a  disembarrassment  conceivable  only  in  one  who  had 
been  present  with  God  in  the  fabrication  of  the  world — who 
was  with  him  in  the  composition  of  the  beings  that  surround 
us,  who  had  served  for  hands  to  creative  wisdom.  This  man  of 
the  people  was  as  superior  to  the  two  nobles  as  wisdom  is  to 
ignorance,  as  strength  is  to  impotence,  as  the  people  are  to  the 
kings  who  govern  them,  in  strength,  in  resources,  in  physical 
and  moral  power. 

The  two  guests  were  so  ravished  listening  to  the  sage,  that 
four  hours  passed  without  their  perceiving  it ;  when  the  body 
of  Schmidt  admonished  his  soul  to  come  down  from  the  lofty 
heights  of  science  to  the  dark  regions  of  the  flesh  which  sought 
food,  and  must  be  supplied  at  the  risk  of  being  separated  from 
its  intelligent  companion.  During  the  repast,  which  was  spar- 
ing and  frugal  to  excess,  especially  for  the  Baron,  that  volcano 
of  ideas  grand  and  new,  continued  his  explanations,  his  physi- 
ognomy revealing  nothing  whatever  of  the  inexplicable  tor- 
ments he  was  suffering.  The  Baron,  in  a  moment  when  he 
was  left  alone  with  Kant,  said  to  him  : 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  37 

—  This  singular  man  is  one   of  those  visionaries,  who  be- 
cause they  conceive  a  thing  believe  it ;  and  while   the  strength 
of  their  own  conviction  makes  their  hearers  doubt  whether  it  is 
really  truth  or  a  paradox,  their  eloquence  fascinates   into  con- 
cession. 

—  Do  you  think  so  ? 

—  Such  is  my  opinion. 

—  I  do  not  share  it 

The  presence  of  the  condemned  and  of  Schmidt  cut  short 
their  discourse.  They  hoped  for  new  wonders.  They  had  de- 
termined to  leave  the  ruins,  for  it  was  now  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  the  carriage  which  conducted  them  to  the  end  of 
the  terrible  lane,  which  the  country  people  would  not  tread  for 
their  weight  in  gold,  had  perhaps  gone,  the  driver  believing 
them  victims  to  their  temerity  ;  but  Schmidt  easily  persuaded 
them  to  pass  the  night  with  him,  for  he  had  yet  to  show  them 
wonderful  things,  which  he  exacted  under  oath  that  they  should 
bury  in  their  breasts.  They  consented. 

The  sun  with  accelerated  pace  abandoned  the  horizon,  so 
that  the  darkness  of  night  entering  by  the  unsashed  skylights 
of  the  ruins,  mingled  with  the  gloom  shed  by  the  dense  foliage 
which  served  for  curtains.  The  silence  and  the  situation  were 
imposing,  clothed  in  the  mystery  lent  by  night.  They  had  gone 
into  another  apartment,  less  lugubrious  but  not  less  majestic ; 
it  was  the  pantheon  of  the  monks  of  Abelard,  which  retained 
some  few  tombs  almost  in  the  state  of  their  primitive  exist- 
ence. 


CHAPTER    III. 

KANT  and  de  Vieux  remained  alone  in  that  mansion  of  dark- 
ness, illumined  only  by  the  smoky  light  which  emanated  from  a 
sooty  lamp  of  four  wicks,  placed  upon  a  ruined  tomb.  It  was 
a  symbol  of  the  faith  of  men  in  our  age,  which  sees  every  thing 
through  clouds  of  smoke.  What  were  their  feelings  our  read- 
ers may  imagine,  who,  if  they  have  put  themselves  in  their  situ- 
ation, cannot  but  confess  freely  that  terror,  mingled  with 
amazement,  must  have  served  as  their  atmosphere  in  those 
caverns. 

Schmidt  had  gone  out  with  Jose  Felii'i,  the  two  strangers 
not  knowing  whither  nor  for  what  purpose,  but  they  hoped  to 
see  extraordinary  things.  In  the  interim,  they  made  a  thousand 
guesses  as  to  what  could  have  originated  in  that  man  a  life  so 
strange ;  pretensions  so  marvellous,  customs  so  extravagant, 
passions  so  inexplicable,  actions  so  mysterious,  reticences  so  in- 
comprehensible. The  voice  of  Schmidt  was  heard  like  the 
sailor's  horn  on  the  wide  expanse  of  ocean,  when  at  a  great  dis- 
tance from  another  ship  he  believes  himself  lost,  the  echo  of 
which  transcended  the  imposing,  and  reached  even  the  terrible. 

—  What  is  that,  Kant,  what  are  these  sounds  so  lugubrious, 
that  seem  to  be  approaching  us? 

—  I  don't  understand  it,  do  Vieux,  I  don't  understand  it  ; 
it  may  be,  perhaps,  the  shepherds  of  the  neighborhood  tending 
their  flocks,  whose  shouts,  since  we  are  in  these  solitudes,  seem 
to  us  like  the  cries  of  those  who,  entering  the  vestibules  of  eter- 


THE  R  TJINS  OF  THE  PAEA  CLETE.  39 

nity,  and  having  lost  their  way,  seek  a  conductor  to  the  eternal 
roads. 

— What  think  you,  is  it  not  fearful  to  live  here  ?  Do  you 
know  this  man  is  capable  of  turning  the  brains  of  the  wisest 
man,  with  all  his  science  ?  It  is  not  from  fear,  but  from 
I  know  not  what  repugnance  that  possesses  me,  but  I  am  deter- 
mined to  leave  this  place. 

—  And  where  would  you  go  at  this  hour  ?     One  can  pass  a 
bad  night  any  where. 

The  same  tremendous  voices  drew  nearer,  proceeding  appa- 
rently from  the  bowels  of  the  abyss.  The  frames  of  the  two 
aristocrats  shuddered ;  a  strange  trembling  agitated  their  arms 
from  the  elbows  to  the  fingers.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and 
their  eyes  fell  upon  the  lamp,  which  emitted  dense  columns  of 
smoke  from  its  four  wicks,  which  began  where  the  lurid  flame 
ended ;  approximative  image  of  the  physical  harmony  of  soul 
and  body.  Their  shadows,  monstrously  distorted  by  the  arches 
of  the  vaults,  presented  to  their  view  formidable  spectres ;  the 
slightest  movement  called  up  in  their  minds  fearful  images. 
They  stood  like  two  statues.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment 
there  was  an  ogive  which  served  as  a  door,  leading  from  the  place 
where  they  were,  abode  of  the  dead,  perhaps  to  the  infernal  re- 
gions ....  or  to  the  fields.  On  that  side  they  heard  footsteps. 
It  was  Schmidt,  coming  with  a  brand  of  burning  pinewood  in  his 
hand.  Before  they  could  distinguish,  amid  the  shadows  pro- 
jected by  the  smoky  torch,  his  saifron-colored  beard,  they 
thought  it  must  be  Time  encountering  them,  watching  Death  in 
the  darkness  of  night,  to  surprise  in  his  arms  the  horrid  myste- 
ries of  his  inhuman  loves. 

—  Come,  you  must  excuse  my  having  left  you  alone  a  few 
moments ;  I  went  to  prepare  your  beds ;  they  will  not  be  wor- 
thy of  your  aristocratic  persons,  but  you  will  sleep  tranquilly  ; 
that  is  all  we  need  to  insure  to  make  sleep  profitable. 

These  words  brought  back  the  souls  of  Kant  and  de  Vieux 
to  their  bodies. 


30  THE  TWO  FATHER*. 

—  Do  you  know,  Schmidt — said  the  former, —  that  your  pa- 
lace has  a  sinister  aspect? 

—  The  aspect  of  things  affects  only  the  vulgar ;    let  us 
study  their  qualities.     Many  times  you   may  have  seen  a  man 
of  fine  countenance,  elegant  form,  fascinating  manners  and  melo- 
dious voice,  and  his  heart,  his  soul  have  horrified  you  when  you 
have  known   him   profoundly ;    on   the   contrary,  you  will  not 
fail  to  remember  some  whose  aspect  is  forbidding,  whose  harsh 
voice  makes   those  who   have   delicate   nerves  tremble,  but  in 
whom,  upon  intimate  acquaintance,  you  have  found  souls  of  an- 
gels in  bodies  of  demons,  hearts  of  wax  incased  within  rusted 
iron.     We  must  not  believe  in  appearances. 

As  he  said  this,  he  led  them  from  the  apartment,  they  not 
knowing  what  they  were  doing ;  for  in  certain  circumstances  of 
life  men  prove  that  there  are  beings,  like  the  loadstone,  which 
attract  us  independently  of  our  wills,  unconsciously  to  ourselves. 
They  arrived  at  the  place  where  the  Franco-German  wished 
them  to  remain  :  there  was  a  door,  which,  after  he  had  thrown  the 
torch  upon  the  ground,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot  flew  open,  and 
revealed  what  was  within.  De  Vieux  drew  back  and  gave  way 
for  Schmidt  and  Kant. 

—  Here — said  the  first,  entering. —  you  will   see  the   truth 
of  the  ncrvo-sangidnco-nutri-imbibiti'cc  system. 

The  horror  depicted  by  Michael  Angelo  in  his  Last  Judgment, 
is  not  equal  to  that  which  was  represented  by  the  countenances 
of  the  two  nobles.  Let  us  see  what  caused  them  such  surprise. 

It  was  a  vast  vault,  well  lighted  by  half  a  dozen  lamps  of  a 
peculiar  make ;  on  one  side  was  a  great  plank  with  bottles  and 
glasses,  and  some  blocks  which  Schmidt  called  benches  or  seats; 
in  the  centre  was  erected  a  gallows  whence  ropes  were  hanging, 
at  the  foot  of  which  instrument  were  great  stones  enveloped  in 
a  kind  of  net  made  of  rough  cords.  Jose  Feliii  stood  at  the 
left  of  the  formidable  machine,  from  the  death  inflicted  by 
which  Schmidt  had  liberated  him. 

—  What  does  this  mean,  my  friend —  exclaimed  Kant,  his 
hair  standing  on  end,  — what  does  this  mean? 


THE  RV1SS  OF  THE  PAR  AGLET E.  31 

—  It  is  my  workshop  of  wonders,  my  friend. 

—  Workshop  of  wonders  ! 

—  As  you  hear.     You  will  test  it  this  night. 

—  I! 

—  Yes,  and  this  gentleman  too. 

—  I !  exclaimed  de  Vieux.  trembling. 

—  Ha !  ha !  ha !  do  you  believe  that  I  am  a  demon,  or  do 
you  but  prove  that  what  you  call  the  great   have  degenerated, 
and  are  sunk  into  the  smallest  atoms  of  men  ?     Why  fear  ? 
Which  of  my  antecedents  can  induce  you  to  believe  me  an  ex- 
ecutioner, a  murderer,  a  traitor  ?     I  will  make  the  first  experi- 
ment, and  if  you  wish  to  taste  for  a  while  the  preludes  of  para- 
dise, you  may  try  it.     How  misled  are  men ;  this  instrument 
invented  to  torture  thousands  of  innocents,  instead  of  the  ago- 
nies of  death,  yields  the  pleasures  of  heaven ;  in  place  of  horri- 
ble convulsions,  causes  quiverings  of  delight ;  instead  of  making 
the  entrance  into  eternity  frightful,  renders  it  enchanting.     Is 
it  not  true,  Jos  j  1  is  it  not  certain,  my  son  ? 

The  condemned  replied  with  broken  voice : 

—  The  moments  are  few.  but  immense  the  delight. 

Kant  and  de  Vieux  looked  at  each  other,  as  though  in 
another  world ;  that  which  they  have  left  above  the  vaults 
seems  to  have  receded  several  centuries. 

—  I  see  that  you  are  confounded  at  what  I  tell  you,  or  that 
you  think  me  mad.     Let  us  sit  down. 

The  two  nobles  mechanically  sat  down. 
Schmidt  proceeded  : 

—  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  key  to  this  mystery,  so  inex- 
plicable to  you. 

Before  listening  to  Schmidt  it  is  necessary  to  observe,  that 
this  man  was  apparently  exasperated  against  the  nobles  of  the 
earth ;  nevertheless,  such  is  the  power  of  science,  that  it  made 
him  forget  even  his  anger  as  soon  as  he  .entered  the  domain  of 
intelligence.  Oh,  that  all  men  would  amass  wisdom,  that  they 
might  forget  the  passions  which  agitate  them  !  Let  him  go  on  : 

—  You  will  remember,  you  particularly  who  were  in  Lon- 


32  TIM  TW(J  FATHERS. 

don  at  that  time,  the  arrival  of  our  countryman,  Faust- Wer- 
ther,  of  Stuttgard,  and  the  representations  he  gave  in  the  me- 
tropolis of  Great  Britain,  on  behalf  of  which  Lord  *  *  *  be- 
(.•auii-  so  very  enthusiastic,  calling  them  his  di-sscrt.  with  his 
condemned  criminal  whom  he  had  delivered,  as  I  had  done  a 
year  before  in  Barcelona,  with  my  poor  son  Jose, —  and  Schmidt 
turned  his  eyes  full  of  tenderness  to  the  spot  where  Feliii  stood ; 
—  also  it  will  be  present  to  your  mind  that  the  police  prose- 
cuted the  German  physician,  and  that  Lord  *  *  *  went  with 
him  and  the  condemned  criminal  from  the  Court  of  St.  James, 
and  you  will  remember,  too,  the  untimely  end  to  which  he 
came 

—  Yes,  my  friend,  I  remember ;  you  are  right ;  I  was  there. 

—  Jose  and  I  were  there  also,  and  we  knew  as  much  as  they  ; 
but  till  then  I  never  believed  there   could  be  any  one  who.  for 
the  sake  of  money,  would   commit  such   a  profanity.     I  grant 
that  enthusiasm   may  lead  us    to   make    experiments    in  the 
secrecy   of  our   laboratories   for   the   good   of    mankind,  and 
even  of  poor  animals  ; — this  is  well  enough  ;  but  to  prostitute 
Nature,  making  her  loving  mysteries  serve  to  pander  to  the 
vulgar  ignorant,  and  give  them  an  occasion  for  wickedness,  is 
not  only  unreasonable,  but  insane.     From   that  moment  I  be- 
gan to  study  this  great  discovery,  due,  like  most  prodigies,  to  a 
mere    chance,  as  you  already   know,  through  the  Societc  dcs 
Pendus,  which  proves  the  little  we  study  this  great  book  that 
we  have  before  our  eyes,  Nature,  whose  pages  embrace  the  uni- 
verse.    Jose  told  me  what  he  had  experienced  ;  I  tested  it.  and 
to  perfect  the  discovery  and  bring  my  system  into  clearer  light. 
I  added  some  potions,  some  of  which  taken  half  an  hour,  others 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  previously,  combine  with  the  strangulation 
to   agitate   Nature   and  produce   the  desired   sensations,  caused 
principally  by  the   greater  activity  of  the   blood  in  these  mo- 
ments of  nervous  desperation.     Why   say   any   more?     When 
one  who  has  profoundly  studied  nature   can  demonstrate  truth 
by  experiment,  theories  are  useless.     I  invite  you  to  pass  a  few 
moments  of  exquisite  enjoyments  in  allowing  yourselves  to  be 


THE  R  UINS  OF  TEE  PARA  CLETE.  3  3 

hanged  for  some  hundred  seconds,  and  you  will  see  if  I  have 
not  attained  the  object  of  my  incalculable  labors. 

—  This  is  very  dangerous,  Schmidt ;  I  grant  you   all  you 
have  said,  but  I  had  rather  not  trust  my  neck  to  such  a  funam- 
bulous  exercise. 

—  M.  le  Baron  will  be  more  of  our  age  ? 

—  M.  Schmidt,  the  question  seems  to  me   rather  delicate ; 
for  in  our  age  of  positivism,  I  should   not  wish  to  risk  myself  on 
a  perhaps. 

—  But   I  will  be  the  first,  Jose  will   follow  me ;  and  after 
you  have  seen  the  simplicity  of  the  operation.  I  can  assure  you 
you  will  desire  to   taste  the  pleasures   it  affords.     Chloroform, 
animal   magnetism,    and    other  modern   inventions,    are  much 
more  hazardous,  less  delicious,  and  cause  greater  suffering.    Oh  ! 
curiosity  will   incite  you,  and   I  shall   obtain,  if  I  die  soon  as  I 
believe  I  shall,  the  support  of  two  personages  like  yourselves, 
who  with  your  own  experience  will  be   able  to  testify  to  the 
theories  of  the   obscure  physician.     Kant,  friend  of  my  child- 
hood, will  you  deny  me  this  service  ?     Do  you  know  how  much 
you  can  make  me  lose  or  gain  ? 

•  He  said  this  in  a  manner  so  peculiar,  that  Kant  was  moved 
at  the  expression  of  the  countenance  of  Schmidt,  and  replied  : 

—  Dear  friend,  the  sublimity  your   features  respire,  united 
to  the  certainty  I  feel  of  your  great  knowledge,  makes  me  pro- 
mise that  after  I  have  seen  you,  and  if  you  give  me  your  word 
that  you  will  watch  the  movements  of  the  friend  of  your  child- 
hood. I  will  try  it ! 

—  It  could  not  but  be  so — exclaimed  Schmidt,  beside  him- 
self for  joy, — it  could  not  but  be  so ;  your  eyes  bespeak  the 
generosity  of  your  soul ;  in  them  I  read  frank  friendship  ;  your 
heart   is  great  as  your  mind   is  not  vulgar.     Fear   not — and 
stretching  out  his  arm  and  displaying  his  hand,  he  continued  : 
— from  these  fleshless  fingers  will  escape  not  an  atom  of  life  that 
passes  through  the  air.     When  stretching  out  my  arm  I  apply 
a  finger  to  the  temples.  I  count  the  molecules  of  activity  which 

2* 


34  THE  TWO  FATllEHS. 

rapidly  circulate  through  the  vital  channels.  You  will  see,  you 
will  lose  all  fear,  you  will  try,  and  afterwards after- 
wards you  will  not  suffer  Schmidt  to  die  in  obscurity,  whom 
poverty  and  sufferings  have  buried  alive  in  these  ruins ;  from 
whom  men  fly  as  from  a  demon,  while  he  sacrifices  himself  for 
their  good ;  whose  brains,  while  he  to  make  them  good  and 
happy  opens  his  heart  to  mortal  steel,  they  have  crushed,  rob- 
bing him  of  the  only  thing  he  loved.  Kant,  Kant,  Providence 
drew  you  here 

He  was  silent,  and  with  the  worn  skirt  of  his  surtout  wiped 
away  a  tear.  To  see  a  man  so  formidable  in  appearance  weep  ; 
to  hear  one  who  was  acquainted  even  with  the  causes  of  life  sob, 
must  have  interested  not  only  those  who  heard  him,  but  the 
most  ignorant,  and  confiding  in  his  exquisite  sensibilities,  they 
would  have  trusted  themselves  in  his  hands  without  reserve. 
Thus  it  happened  to  Kant  and  de  Vieux,  particularly  the  latter, 
who  had  in  his  youth  drained  the  cup  of  pleasure,  having  tried 
the  sulphuric  ether,  the  pastile  of  the  harems,  and  every  thing 
that  refined  luxury  has  invented  to  imbrute  man,  and  deprive 
him  of  the  gift  of  reason  which  assimilates  him  to  God.  After 
a  moment's  reflection,  during  which  all  retained  silence,  he 
ventured  to  put  this  question  to  the  absorbed  Schmidt,  who,  as 
he  stood  like  a  monument  in  the  silence  of  night  after  the  in- 
augural festival,  was  thinking  something  extraordinary  : 

—  M.  Schmidt,  have  you  found  the  means  of  exciting  cer- 
tain given  sensations  ;  for  example,  those  of  love  ? 

A  smile  played  lightly  on  the  lips  of  Schmidt,  which  indi- 
cated that  which  will  be  read  in  the  following  chapters,  united 
to  the  scorn  which  the  epicure  excited  in  him,  and  he  re- 
plied : 

—  Have  I  found  the  means  of  exciting  the   pleasure   of 
which   you   speak  ?     And  why  not  ? — He  made  an   effort   as 
though  fighting  with  his  own  soul,  and  approaching  the  improvised 
table,  took  up   a  bottle  and  said — Read,  "  Heroic   Aphrody- 
siac."     If  you  take  a  glass  of  this  liquid,   in   a  quarter  of  an 


THE  RUIXS  OF  TUP:  PARACLETE.  35 

hour,  my  Lord  Baroii,  placed  in  the  funi-phantasmagorica, 
which  is  the  name  I  have  given  to  the  experimental  gallows, 
you  will  far  surpass  the  muleteer  of  Medina  with  his  febrile 
paradisiac  dream.  In  a  minute  and  a  half  you  will  be  flying 
through  the  air,  your  head  reclining  upon  the  bosom  of  a  mag- 
nificent woman,  every  convulsion  will  be  a  kiss,  every  move- 
ment a  flutter  of  love,  every  oscillation  the  supreme  instant  of  a 
passion  suppressed  for  many  years,  and  compensated  by  the 
caresses  of  a  delicious  kouri.  Oh  !  M.  de  Vieux,  this  elixir, 

and    the    gallows,  will   suit  you that  you  may  know 

what  it  is  to  enjoy 

He  was  going  to  continue,  or  to  be  silent,  after  these  re- 
ticenses,  but  Kant  interrupted  one  or  both  these  things,  by 
saying : 

—  Schmidt,  dear   Schmidt,  and   is  it  in  your  power  to  call 
up  horrible  images,  infernal  pictures  ? 

—  To  awaken  horrors  in  the  imagination  ?  .  .  .   .  But  what 
scenes,  friend,  what  scenes  ? — He  took  up  a  bottle  and  read  the 
label.  "  Phantasm agorico-Satanic." — With  this  drink  you  see  in 
ninety  seconds   all  that  the  mind   of  Lucifer   can  forge  to  ter- 
rify men.     It  seems  to  you  that  you  are  dreaming  ;  that  they 
are  inflicting  on  you  the  cruelties  of  Nero,  Caligula,  Attila, 
Dioclcsian,  those  of  the   inquisition ;   and  you   see  here  what  a 
leap,  but  the  two  epochs  shake  hands ;  that  you  are  suffering 
the  tortures  of  a  night  of  agitating  dreams,  those  that  the  In- 
dians and  the  civilized  have  mutually  inflicted  upon  each  other  ; 
those  that  are  suffered  by  the  poor,  freezing  with  cold  and  dy- 
ing of  hunger ;  those   experienced  by  the  condemned  criminal 
as  he  ascends  the  steps  of  the  guillotine  ;  those  endured  by  the 
husband  whose  wife  and  daughter  have  been  stolen  from  him, 
their  honor  stained,  and  their  innocence  blighted.     Fired  with 
this  potion,  you  see  death  and  his  satellites  making  fearful  faces 
at  a   moribund.     Anger,  envy,  jealousy,  rage,  the  tortures  of 
suspense,  thirst  for  vengeance,  lust  for  gold,  the  pains  of  num- 
berless diseases — all  the   emotions  you  may  feel  inclined  to  ex- 


36  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

• 

perience,  pleasing  or  painful,  are  inclosed  in  these  bottles,  with 
the  aid  of  the  gallows  which  is  before  you.  I  want  yet  to  see 
horrors — and  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  emptied  into  a 
cup  a  small  draught  of  a  red  liquor,  and  drank  it  to  the  dregs, 
with  deadly  anxiety  ;  then  turning  to  his  amazed  guests  he 
said  : 

—  Choose,  quickly,    for  it  must   be   taken    in  the  critical 
moment. 

He  looked  at  them  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  waited  the  an- 
swer of  Kant  and  de  Vieux,  who,  notwithstanding  their  curi- 
osity to  make  the  experiment,  touched  their  necks  as  though 
they  already  felt  them  squeezed  in  the  rough  ropes  that  hung 
from  the  gallows. 

—  Well,  what  say  you  ?  qtiick  !  within  ten  minutes  I  put 
on  the  cravate ;  quick  !  what  will  you  try  1 

—  My  friend,  if  I  determine  after  seeing  the  execution,  I 
desire  to  enjoy  a  state  of  beatitude  of  soul. 

— "  Pacific  spiritual  enjoyments" this  bottle,  take, 

drink. 

Kant  drained  the  glass. 

—  You,  M.  de  Vieux  ? 

—  Under  the  same  conditions  as  my  friend,  I  want  to  see 
the  Paradise  of  Mahomet. 

—  Mahomet  ....  the  first  bottle,  this,  drink. 

The  Baron  emptied  it.  The  taste  was  agreeable,  even  dis- 
gust was  spared  them.  Schmidt  did  not  wait  for  them  to 
speak : 

—  This  is  agreed. 

—  What  ? 

—  What? 

—  That  each  one  shall  relate  what  he  sees. 

—  Agreed. 

—  I  consent. 

—  It  will  be  curious. 

—  Worth  hearing. 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  37 

The  worker  of  wonders  made  them  sit  down  near  the  appa- 
ratus and  began  giving  orders  to  Jose.  There  was  heard  from 
this  moment  no  sound,  no  sign  of  life,  but  the  voice  of  Schmidt. 

—  Jose,  my  son,  bring  the  quilted  cravate,  that  the  ropes 
may  not  graze  the  necks  of  these  gentlemen,  who  are  more  deli- 
cate than  we  ;  get  out  the  chronometer  ;  put  the  light  beside  it ; 
see  that  the  time  is   not  exceeded  by  the  smallest  instant ;  I 
shall  remain  suspended  a  little  less  than  120  seconds.     Quick! 
Mind  !  don't  forget  to  untie  the  wheel  and  loosen  the  slip-knot 
the  moment  I  touch  the  ground. 

—  I  will  attend  to  every  thing. 

—  Come,  make  haste,  I  feel  the  symptoms  of  the  liquid. 

In  a  bow-shot  every  thing  was  in  order.  The  apparatus 
was  imposing.  Schmidt  looked  at  the  chronometer,  felt  his 
pulse,  thought  for  an  instant,  directed  his  steps  to  the  spot  and  - 
put  his  neck  into  the  halter,  which  was  a  rope  with  a  little 
quilted  cushion  of  a  material  uniting  flexibility  with  softness. 
Jose  went  up  the  ladder,  passed  the  rope  through  the  pulley  in 
the  centre,  came  down  with  it  in  his  hand,  and  fixing  it  in  the 
notch  of  the  wheel  employed  to  suspend  the  patient  in  the  air, 
placed  a  block  of  wood  some  twelve  inches  high  at  the  feet  of 
Schmidt,  who  stood  upon  it,  had  his  hands  tied  tightly  behind 
him,  and  put  his  feet  into  fetters  of  a  peculiar  make.  When  all 
these  preparations  were  completed,  Jose  approached  the  wheel, 
put  his  right  hand  on  the  handle  ready  to  give  it  the  turn  which 
would  suspend  the  doctor  two  feet  more  in  the  air  ;  with  the 
left  took  a  pike  and  stuck  the  point  into  the  block  to  move  it 
from  the  place,  so  that  the  body  on  coming  down  would  meet 
no  obstacle  on  the  floor,  and  said  : 

—  All  is  ready,  sir. 

—  So  am  I ;  quick  ! 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  electric  spark  Schmidt  was  raised 
three  feet  from  the  floor  and  the  block  removed  to  one  side. 
The  eye's  of  Feliti,  motionless,  were  riveted  on  the  hands  of  the 
chronometer.  Kant  and  do  Vieux  gazed  fearfully  on  the  strug- 


38  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

gles  of  the  Gallo-German's  powerful  frame;  his  eyes  were 
turned  upwards,  showing  only  the  white  balls ;  his  face  was 
livid,  his  tongue  was  hanging  out,  his  veins  and  arteries  were 
inflated,  his  breast  was  agitated,  and  his  legs  from  the  knees  to 
the  feet  were  seized  with  an  extraordinary  trembling. 

One  of  the  strangers  clasped  his  head  in  his  hands,  struck 
with  horror ;  the  other  put  his  finger  on  his  mouth,  gazing  so 
intently  that  little  lights  seemed  to  sparkle  before  his  eyes. 

—  Now,  said  Jose. 

The  wheel  whirr-r-r-r-ed,  Schmidt  touched  the  ground  ;  the 
slip-knot  was  loosened,  a  powerful  aroma  was  applied  to  his 
nostrils,  the  cords  which  bound  his  arms  were  untied,  the  irons 
were  taken  from  his  feet,  and  in  three  minutes  Schmidt  smiled 
looking  at  the  nobles.  A  moment  after  he  said  to  them  : 

—  Oh  !  to  see  what  I  have  seen  at  so  little  cost,  it  were 
worth  while  to  make  a  thousand  such  attempts ;  and  you  see  I 
am  already  in  my  normal  state.     Come,  who  follows  me  ?  the 
time  passes. 

The  Baron  looked  at  Kant,  he  at  Schmidt ;  at  last  de  Vieux 
said : 

—  M.  le  Docteur,  I ;  but  my  life 

—  Say  not  a  word  ;  if  you  suffer  the  least  danger,  here  are 
two  pistols ; — and  he  took  them  from  his   pocket — Kant,  in 
whom  I  believe  you  have  confidence,  shall  fire  with  the  barrels 
between  my  teeth. 

—  I  am  ready. 

—  But  you  will  tell  us  what  you  see,  as  I  will  do. 

—  Just  as  I  see  it :  mind,  now,  don't  go  beyond  the  ninety 
seconds. 

—  Not  an  atom. 

The  French  noble,  in  whose  physiognomy  there  breathed  a 
thirst  for  pleasures  and  epicurean  intoxication,  took  off  his  coat, 
his  vest,  his  cravat,  suffered  the  pillowed  halter  to  be  placed 
upon  him.  though  at  its  contact  he  shuddered ;  let  his  arms  be 
tied  and  his  feet  placed  in  the  fetters.  Schmidt  told  Jose  to  bring 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  39 

a  ladder  that  he  might,  in  those  critical  moments,  place  his  fin- 
gers upon  the  temples  of  the  Baron  and  make  sure  of  his  exist- 
ence, but  to  place  it  so  that  he  need  not  approach  nearer  to  his 
bedy  than  about  an  arm's  length.  When  de  Vieux  heard  the 
whirring  of  the  wheel,  he  said  : 

—  M.  Schmidt,  it  is  a  question  of  my  life  or  my  friend- 
ship. 

—  Don't  concern  yourself. 

Before  seeing  the  Baron  suspended  in  the  air,  we  must  look 
at  the  countenance  of  Schmidt.  He  was  mounted  on  the  ladder 
in  front  of  the  Baron,  so  that  he  could,  by  reaching  out  his  arm, 
just  touch  the  temporal  arteries  of  the  patient ;  his  counte- 
nance wore  a  sinister  expression,  his  features  were  contracted, 
his  lower  lip  clenched  over  the  upper,  his  eyes  were  paralyzed ; 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Kant  was  observing  him,  and  think- 
ing he  saw  in  him  horrible  ideas  was  about  to  cry  out  to  him 
to  stop  

—  Now,  said  Schmidt. 

The  wheel  runs  round ;  the  Baron  is  suspended,  stretching 
down  his  legs  and  the  points  of  his  toes,  as  though  seeking  to 
glue  himself  to  the  earth ;  the  fingers  of  the  Gallo-German  are 
fixed  like  pincers  on  the  temples  of  the  Baron,  while  the  latter 
makes  fearful  gestures,  his  eyes  twinkle  convulsively,  he  trem- 
bles, he  turns  livid,  Schmidt  smiles ;  already  have  elapsed  sixty 
seconds :  the  countenance  of  the  physician  contracts ;  his  eyes 
are  lost  in  the  folds  of  their  living  curtains ;  he  bites  his  infe- 
rior lip.  draws  a  deep  breath,  returns  to  his  normal  state ; 
cries : 

—  The  time,  Jose. 

The  Baron  is  on  the  floor,  freed  from  all  the  apparatus,  safe ; 
and  throwing  himself  into  the  arms  of  Schmidt,  exclaims  : 

—  Man  of  wonders,  I  have  tasted  what  neither  I  nor  the 
genius  of  pleasure  himself  could  conceive  !    Try  it,  Kant,  try  it. 

In  such  enthusiasm  was  de  Vieux,  and  such  security  had 
the  extraordinary  physician  inspired  in  the  noble  German,  that 


40  THE  TWO  FATHER*. 

he  consented  to  try  those  delights.  The  same  was  done  to 
him  as  we  have  seen  done  to  the  others :  and  within  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  from  the  commencement  of  these  hangings,  the  three 
hanged  men  found  themselves  alive  and  well  in  another  cham- 
ber, a  kind  of  sitting-room,  speaking  of  the  wonderful  character 
of  the  discovery.  The  obscure  sage  cut  short  the  river  of  their 
praises,  and  with  a  sad  countenance  engaged  them  each  to  fulfil 
the  promise  given  to  relate  what  he  had  seen.  Kant  wished  to 
be  the  first  in  relating  what  he  had  been  the  last  to  experience, 
adding,  which  was  true,  that  his  vision  had  been  the  simplest. 

—  I  wish  to  tell  you  what  I  have  seen.     How  original ! 
how  interesting  !  how  sublime  ! 

—  But  tell  it  us. 

—  You  may  imagine,  and  now  that  I  have  lost  fear,  and 
am  disposed  to  make   a  hundred   trials,  I  can  confess  it  with- 
out accusing  myself  of  cowardice,  you  may  imagine  that  my 
heart  beat  more  quickly   than  it  is  wont,  as  I  placed  myself 
upon  the  block  ;  a  hundred  lugubrious  ideas  were  struggling  in 
my  mind  with  fear,  when  I  lost  the  earth,  and  began  to  hear  a 
rumbling  in  the  ears,  as  if  you  were  in  a  vault,  while  horses,  cars, 
and  engines  were  running  overhead  ;  afterwards  came  a  sound  as 
of  wind  ;  then  I  felt  a  delicious  throbbing  in  the  breast,  that  dif- 
fused itself  through   all  the  body  ;  then  it  appeared  as  though 
the  heavens   opened,   and  a  bright  light   environed  my  exist- 
ence ;  then  I  saw  Schmidt  flying I  touched   the  floor 

and  lost  that  delicious  illusion,  which  I  would   fain  have  re- 
tained for  an  hour. 

The  physician  smiled,  and  his  traits  dilated. 

—  Well,  now  Baron  it  is  your  turn. 

De  Vieux  turned  his  eyes,  flashing  with  the  brilliancy  of 
sensual  animalism,  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  interlocutors, 
as  though  not  daring  to  communicate  what  he  had  enjoyed, 
jealous  that  others  should  share  such  delights ;  but  he  decided 
to  do  it,  and  said  : 

—  Gentlemen,  to  explain  what  I  have  seen  and  experienced, 


THE  E  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  QLETE.  4 1 

it  is  necessary  to  relate  an  anecdote,  because  those  moments 
fly  quickly,  like  pleasures  ;  but  they  present  scenes  and  enjoy- 
ments of  many  years. 

—  "Well,  say  on,  M.  le  Baron. 

—  Certainly,  speak  out  your  mind,  for  Schmidt   studies  the 
psychological  part  of  his   discovery,  that   is   to  say  the  effect 
which  it  causes  in  the  soul,  and  in  these  cases  a  sage  like   him 
weighs  even  to  the  syllables  whatever  we  utter. 

—  Well,   then,  in  vain   I   would    try    to  deny  to  the  sage 
Schmidt,  that  my  system  is  thirsty  for  pleasures,  and  insatiable 
of  that  charming  tendency.      One  of  the  incidents  of  my  life 
that  has  left  the  deepest  trace  on  my  mind  and  heart,  bears  date 
a  little  over  seventeen  years   ago.     I  knew  by  sight  a  German 
lady,  living  at  a  country-house  in  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  a  beau- 
tiful, charming,  luscious  woman,  widow  or  not  widow  of  a  phy- 
sician ....  the  truth  is,  he  was  travelling  I  don't  know  where  .... 
and  she  missing  him,  I  improved  the  occasion,  blinding  the  ser- 
vants with  gold,  and  surprising  her   one   night.     Never,  after- 
wards, did  I  know  her  end,  because  she  disappeared  soon  af- 
ter.— Schmidt  had  changed  color  several  times. — You  cannot 
imagine  how  delicious  was  that  woman,  nor  the  feelings  that  her 
absence  caused  in  me,  for  the  cup  of  pleasure  had  but  approached 
my  lips.     With  these  antecedents  I   can  relate  what  I  have 
seen. 

The  veins  of  the  temples,  and  the  os  hyoidcs  of  Schmidt  con- 
tinued to  be  so  agitated,  that  he  was  obliged  to  pass  his  hand 
over  his  head  and  neck,  as  though  to  swallow  something,  or 
alleviate  some  pain.  This  man  of  iron  is  softened  only  by  fire ; 
how  intense  must  have  been  the  fire  lighted  up  by  de  Vieux, 
when  he  put  him  into  such  a  state  ! 

—  To  recount   what  is  seen   in  that  inappreciable  atom  of 
time  is  impossible,  except  diffusely.     Jose  well  said,  "  the  mo- 
ments are  few,  but  immense  the  delight ;"  and  to  describe  what 
one  enjoys,  it  is  necessary  to  use  many  words. 

—  But  come,  go  on,  you  put  me  into  desperation. 


42  T1IK  T\YO  FATHER*. 

Schmidt  continued  swallowing,  whether  saliva  or  poison  we 
know  not. 

—  I  pass  over  in  silence  that  which  we  have  all  alike  expe- 
rienced.    A  few  moments  after  my  suspension,  behold  Wilhel- 
mina  presents  herself  to  my  eyes,  with  all  the  charms  of  that 
half  nudity  of  the  Greek  statues,  which  is  a  hundred  times  more 
piquant  than  entire  nudity,  her  mellow  lips  approaching  mine 
of  fire,  which  advanced  to  burn  her  delicious  coral,  as  burning 
iron  fine  satin ;  then  I  struggled  in  the  agonies  of  inexplicable 

love and  returned  to  the  monotonous  life  which  we 

men  pass  in  this  world.     Oh  !  del  detto  al fatto  civa  un  gran 
tratto. 

While  de  Vieux  had  been  speaking,  the  mysterious  sage, 
without  being  observed  by  the  nobles,  closed  his  eyes  and 
folded  his  hands  upon  his  heart,  which  he  detached  as  the 
Baron  finished,  with  the  fingers  and  the  nails  bloody ;  with 
such  violence  had  this  man.  in  five  minutes,  battled  with  him- 
self. 

—  Now  it  is  my  turn, — said  Schmidt — and  then  we  will  make 
our  comments. 

—  Say,  my  friend,  say  what  portentous  visions  you  have  had  : 
I  am  stunned  with  what  I  have  felt  and  seen.     And  what  have 
not  you  experienced,  de  Vieux  ? 

—  I  have  seen  night,  illumined  by  a  green-red  pyre,  and  in 
a  deserted  field   a  young  woman   battling   with    a  tiger,  who 
was   amusing   himself,  thrusting  his  claws  into   her  skin,  and 
making  her  believe  he  was  playing,  when  suddenly  he  tore  open 
her  flesh  from  her  head  downwards,  and  I  saw  .  .  .  Jose  let  me 
down. 

They  were  going  to  ask  something ;  but  a  cry  which  was 
heard  in  the  distance  made  the  prodigious  111:111  begin  to  run, 
leaving  them  in  suspense.  They  had  been  talking  a  little  upon 
the  strangeness  of  those  cries,  which  could  not  but  be  of  great 
importance,  seeing  they  so  powerfully  drew  off  the  attention  of 
Schmidt,  when  he  returned  to  their  presence,  rubbing  his  hands, 


THE  BUMS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  43 

a  custom  which  in  him  denoted  that  his   soul  was  in  scientific 
agitation.     Kant  was  the  first  to  break  silence  : 

—  My  friend,  this  is  the  second  time  during  the  few  hours 
we  have  been  with  you,  that  the  same  distressing  cry  has  been 
heard  ;  can  you,  by  informing  us  of  its  cause,  remove  our  curi- 
osity ?     It  must  be  no  other  than  one  of  those  marvels  which 
your  modest  humility   hides  from  the  sight  and  knowledge  of 
those  who  cannot  appreciate  the  intellectual  power  of  semi-di- 
vine beings,  who,  like  you,  have  a  body,  but  live  only  in  the 
mind. 

The  sage  returned  some  disjointed  words,  which  indicated 
the  high  importance  he  set  upon  the  cause  of  those  lamentations, 
and  ended,  saying : 

—  I  told  you  this  morning,  I  would  explain  to  you  but  the 
half  of  these  things  ;  the  whole   I   cannot  divulge.     There  are 
mysteries  in  religion,  which,  revealed,  would  make  men  demons 
of  pride  ;  there  are  mysteries  in  nature,  which,  were  the  curtain 
drawn,  would  make  men  audacious,  and  lead  them,  perhaps,  to 
aspire   to   equality  with  God ;  there  are  mysteries   in  science, 
which  surprise  the  Divine  Artist  in  his  prodigious  works,  which, 
if  divulged,  would  do  more  harm  than  all  the  good  which  could  be 
derived  from  them,  so  that  these  ineffable  pleasures  must  needs 
be   reserved  to  a  privileged    few.      That  which    causes  these 
cries  is  not  yet  clear  ;  it  is  a  new  world  :  the  Columbus  of  know- 
ledge has   begun  his  voyage,  already  he  distinguishes  land  in 
the  horizon,  he   is  about   to  satiate  the  ambition  of  those  who 
wished  to  accompany  him  so  far  as  to  plant  his  foot  on  a  new 
hemisphere  ;  but  his  vessel  is   not  yet    safe,   although  it  has 
already  plqughed  the  uncertain  sands  of  the  abyss.     That  must 
suffice.     I  can  say  no  more. 

—  Well,  I  do  not  wish  to  launch  into  an  abyss  whence  per- 
haps your  knowledge  could  not  raise  me  again,  for  I  am  not  so 
spiritual  as  to  be  able  to  sail  between  wind  and  water ;  but  you 
will  tell  us  at  least  what  question  you  hope  to  solve  by  those 
cries  ? 


44  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  I  seek  to  know  whether  man  always  sins  when  he  per- 
forms actions  contrary  to  the  law.  It  is  a  question  I  have 
asked  myself  on  seeing  the  unbridled  course  we  run,  dragged 
on  by  our  sensual  and  sordid  appetites,  till  we  seem  to  have 
been  born  rather  to  fight  against  Providence,  nature,  and  our 
own  happiness,  than  for  any  thing  else.  This  universal,  con- 
stant, tenacious  tendency  of  the  inferior  part  of  man,  is  diame- 
trically opposed  to  the  rectitude  which  characterizes  the  soul  in 
her  intimate  self-consciousness,  or,  which  is  the  same  thing,  con- 
science ;  and  I  have  drawn  a  consequence  from  the  psychologi- 
cal nature  of  the  thinking  principle,  which  has  made  me  ask 
myself  the  following  question : — Is  it  certain,  as  the  philoso- 
phers of  times  past  have  said,  that  the  senses  deceive  and  are 
deceived?  And  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  senses 
never  deceive,  that  what  deceive  the  soul  are  the  combinations, 
the  judgments  she  forms  of  the  images  which  the  conductors  of 
the  exterior  life  transmit ;  and  these  depend  on  her  state,  that 
is  to  say,  on  the  normal  or  abnormal  state  in  which  she  finds 
herself,  subjected  by  a  preternatural  excitation  which  operates 
on  the  conductors  of  tnovemcnt,  and  on  those  of  sentiment.  The 
over-excitement  of  the  mind  produced  by  internal  or  external 
causes,  very  often  guarantees  miserable  man  against  the  judg- 
ment of  God  ;  because,  in  truth,  if  all  the  wickedness  which  he 
perpetrates  were  done  by  him  in  a  normal  state,  he  would  de- 
serve that  the  thunderbolts  of  Divine  wrath  should  efface  from 
the  earth  the  steps  of  the  vile  insects  which,  with  heads  lifted 
up,  insult  Him  at  every  step,  at  every  breath,  at  every  link  of 
the  chain  of  time  which  passes  unbroken  over  their  existence. 
Perhaps  you  will  not  understand  the  end  I  propose,  to  myself 
in  many  of  those  things  I  have  just  told  you  ;  but  this  is  my 
idea  which  I  have  in  part  stolen  from  the  profound  Dr.  Ber- 
trand,  whose  treatise  on  artificial  somnambulism  is  a  work  wor- 
thy of  immortalizing  its  author.*  This  profound  genius  in  his 

*  The  whole  scientific  world  is  acquainted  witli  the  learned  Doctor 
here  mentioned,  whose  death,  and  the  consequent  loss  of  all  his  works,  is 


RU1XS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  45 

flight,  rushes  across  the  wide-spread  hemisphere  of  philosophy, 
of  physiology,  and  of  history.  Finally,  gentlemen,  as  to  physio- 
logical phenomena,  I  have  made  a  great  progress ;  but  psycho- 
logy belittles  me.  It  is  certain  that  the  soul  enjoys  an  activity 
that  we  will  call  ubiquity,  if  not  instantaneous,  at  least  succes- 
sive and  wonderfully  rapid ;  it  has  its  agents  or  conductors  of 
sentiment,  which,  according  to  modern  discoveries,  are  certain 
nerves  under  its  immediate  control,  and  from  these  active, 
swift,  and  rapid  spontaneities  are  born  an  infinity  of  phenomena 
which  bewilder  the  imagination,  disconcert  the  judgment,  baffle 
the  reason,  and  confound  all  the  faculties  of  one  who  seeks  to 
study  them  profoundly.  Enthusiasm,  moral  fear,  spiritual  love, 
ecstasies,  the  sur-excitation  of  the  passions,  are  they  not  mar- 
vels which  the  soul  works  upon  the  body,  just  as  that  which  you 
have  experienced  has  operated  upon  it ;  like  those  felt  by  drunk- 
ards, the  sensual,  cowards,  and  those  who  allow  themselves  to 
be  dominated  by  their  animal  appetites?  Gentlemen,  man 
knows  nothing ;  he  must  study  himself  yet  many  centuries  to 
be  able  to  understand  himself.  What  wonders  does  not  the  soul 
exhibit  in  this  state  of  intense,  powerful,  destructive,  insur- 
mountable irritation  which  controls  her  !  If .  she  is  seized  by 
fear  you  see  the  members  fail,  the  strength  vanish,  the  body  fall 
into  syncope  :  if  in  one  of  those  supreme  moments  she  touches, 
without  materializing  herself  in  the  least,  the  conductors  of  sen- 
timent, those  nerves  that  must  be  called  the  immediate  agents 
of  the  spiritual  power,  they  excite  enthusiasm  ;  if  for  a  wo- 
man, and  without  thinking  of  her  body,  man  does  wonders  ;  if 
in  an  army,  and  each  soldier  is  a  hero,  unsubdued  by  fatigue, 
the  third  part  of  which  would  be  sufficient  in  the  absence  of  his 
enthusiasm  to  kill  him";  if  in  a  person  fanatical  in  religion, 
or  it  may  be  truly  pious,  and  he  presents  us  with  ecstasies, 
elevations ;  because,  gentlemen,  when  the  soul  is  in  all  her 

deeply  deplored  by  all  who  knew  the  transcendent  sublimity  which  charac- 
terized the  unpublished,  but  powerful  writings  of  this  too-early-lost  French 
facultative. 


46  'f'JlK  T\VO  FATHERS. 

activity,  when  passion  for  any  object  rules,  subjects,  dis- 
quiets, torments,  devours,  destroys,  kills  us ;  she  forgets  the 
body,  and  the  nerves  of  sentiment  work  wonders,  produce  con- 
vulsions, contractions,  leaps,  elevations,  gestures,  things  unseen, 
unheard  of.  Oh  !  if  man  could  enter  into  this  spiritual  world  ! 
if  he  could  succeed  in  penetrating  the  why  of  his  phenomena,  if 
he  could  surprise  nature  in  her  most  exquisite  operations,  he 
would  see  that  many  of  the  bad  actions  he  commits  are  not  sin- 
ful before  God ;  as  those  of  the  madman,  those  of  a  man  intoxi- 
cated, those  of  one  who  sleeps,  those  of  the  somnambulist.  That 
is  my  idea,  Kant,  to  see  if  I  could  succeed  in  disonlpating  the 
human  race  before  conscience,  before  God,  before  reason,  from 
all  his  errors  when  they  are  born  of  that  sur-excitation  of  the 
soul's  activity  in  which  the  senses  are  left  powerless.  This  is 
my  idea,  awakened  by  seeing  men  so  corrupt,  so  brutal.  But 
what !  I  dream  !  I  imagine  myself  alone  ;  I  believe  no  one 
hears  me  ;  it  is  already  late,  you  doubtless  wish  to  repose. 

—  No,  my  friend,  go  on  ;    for  my  part,  I   confess  I  would 
fain  listen  to  you  all  night. 

—  M.  Schmidt, — said  the  Baron —  your  luminous  conversa- 
tion puts  me  into  an  ecstatic  state  like  those  of  which  you  have 
just  spoken  ;   I  enjoy  hearing  you  as  though  I  were  present  at 
the  plan  of  God  in  forming  the  world. 

—  Thanks,  gentlemen,  thanks  ;  but  the  body  demands  that 
the   exercise  of  the   conductors  of  movement^  or,  as  you  call 
them,  the  senses,  be  suspended  for  some  hours. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  nothing  interrupted  the  august 
silence  of  the  ruins  of  the  Paraclete.  The  two  nobles,  tired  of 
so  many  emotions,  and  in  a  state  of  marvellous  psychological 
and  normal  physiological  tranquillity,  were  sleeping  in  a  cham- 
ber contiguous  to  that  of  Schmidt.  But  it  will  be  well  before 
we  speak  of  the  admirable  man,  to  describe  his  appearance  as 
we  see  him  sitting  at  the  foot  of  his  poor  bed,  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  with  naked  feet :  and  that  we  take  note  of  the  battle 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PAR  A  CLETK  47 

his  soul  sustains  against  himself.  There  are  moments  when  he 
inclines  and  shakes  his  head ;  at  other  instants  he  stands  up 
and  seems  in  imagination  to  be  seeking  something ;  now  he 
takes  a  few  paces  on  the  damp  earth ;  now  he  has  stretched  his 
arm  with  features  of  fearful  expression :  now  he  lets  it  fall  and 
sighs  ;  now  he  presses  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  his  counte- 
nance is  wrinkled  ;  now  he  smiles,  he  puts  his  forefinger  to  his 
mouth  ;  now  seizes  his  large  beard,  tearing  its  hairs  with  indig- 
nation ;  now  he  makes  affirmative  signs,  now  negative  ;  he  takes 
a  few  large  strides,  being  near  some  planks  whereon  are  placed 
instruments  of  death  in  infinite  variety,  he  recedes  ;  now,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  he  looks  up  to  Heaven.  He  seems  mad,  or  in 
a  state  of  sur-excitation,  like  that  of  which  he  has  just  spoken. 
Schmidt,  lighted  by  a  little  lamp  whose  pallid  light  in  its  last 
agonies  throws  off  sparks,  half  undressed,  with  his  extreme  thin- 
ness of  body  and  distorted  visage,  bears  no  resemblance  to  the 
being  who  was  discoursing  half  an  hour  ago.  Schmidt,  in  speak- 
ing, was  like  one  of  those  birds  who  mount  up  as  though  they 
would  touch  the  sky,  and  in  his  strange  bed-room  resembles  the 
same  bird  which  before  had  dazzled  the  sight,  caught  and  im- 
prisoned in  an  iron  cage,  where  nothing  can  be  seen  but  a  miser- 
able piece  of  corruptible  flesh.  While  our  readers  have  made 
this  reflection,  the  Grallo-German  has  taken  a  small  vial,  di- 
rected himself  to  the  door  which  communicates  with  the  room 
in  which  are  his  guests,  his  hand  is  placed  upon  it,  now  he  is 
going  to  open  it,  he  has  opened  it,  with  one  foot  raised  he  is 
looking  at  the  Baron,  who  sleeps  profoundly,  the  veins  of  the 
neck  are  swelling,  the  os  hyoidcs  rises  and  falls,  he  compresses 
his  accelerated  breath,  now  he  has  taken  a  step,  the  hand  that 
holds  the  bottle  trembles,  ....  he  bites  his  lip,  returns  into  hi> 
own  apartment,  places  the  bottle  on  the  shelf,  clasps  his  hands 
looks  up  to  Heaven,  and  weeps — the  lamp  goes  out. 


CHATTER   IV. 

TOWARDS  the  close  of  the  evening  preceding  the  night  in  which 
we  find  ourselves,  there  were  assembled  at  an  inn  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Nogent  de  la  Seine,  where  the  Baron  de  Vieux  and 
the  Count  Kant  had  been  guests,  many  persons  surrounding  the 
coachman,  who  had  returned  at  about  five  o'clock,  and  asking 
him  over  and  over  again  what  had  become  of  the  two  rash  no- 
bles, who,  despising  advice,  had  ventured  to  penetrate  the  ruins 
of  the  Paraclete,  where  the  wizard  lived.  Among  the  company 
were  the  two  laborers  whom  we  saw  in  the  morning,  and  a  man 
who  in  the  midst  of  that  noise  of  voices,  exclamations,  gestures, 
foolish  words,  listened  without  opening  his  lips.  There  is  no- 
thing in  the  world  more  slanderous,  babbling,  credulous,  super- 
stitious and  ignorant,  than  the  society  of  small  country  towns. 
In  them,  every  man's  life  is  known  to  his  neighbor,  from  the 
least  thing  to  the  greatest ;  and  as  there  are  no  journals,  news 
augments  in  volume,  according  to  the  heads  through  which  it 
passes,  and  those  of  villagers  are  generally  as  dense  and  volu- 
minous as  their  ignorance,  so  that  when  the  news  arrives,  as 
the  Spaniards  would  say,  at  the  last  monkey  of  the  village,  it 
has  grown  from  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  into  an  enormous 
pumpkin,  whose  magnitude  exceeds  that  of  the  egg  of  Marras, 
in  the  old  story.  Every  one  of  those  blockheads  forged  a  tale 
about  the  magician  that  lived  in  the  Paraclete.  Many  had 
seen  him  at  night  flying  through  the  air,  with  horns  and  tail  of 
fire  ;  and  our  readers  will  see  that  he  would  go  pretty  hot  in 
such  a  guise  !  Others,  with  a  thousand  precautions,  and  well- 


TEE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  49 

provided  with  arms,  had  got  a  glimpse  of  him,  and  seen  .... 
such  horrors  !  They  had  seen  him  fight  with  a  naked  tall  wo- 
man, who  must  have  been  the  witch  wife  of  the  great  prince  of  the 
Malandrines  Follones,  although  these  bumpkins  knew  nothing 
of  the  story  of  the  Hidalgo  of  La  Mancha,  and  to  that  they 
attributed  the  groanings  and  howlings  that  were  often  heard, 
and  which  they  said  resembled  the  sound  of  a  bugle-horn.  At 
this  point  the  countrymen,  whose  laughter  of  the  morning  had 
been  cut  short  by  the  raven,  looked  at  one  another,  and  raised 
their  heads  to  see  if  the  bird  were  passing ;  but  finding  they 
were  under  a  roof,  with  a  good  bottle  of  beer  before  them,  they 
puffed  out  their  cheeks,  and  in  the  midst  of  their  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  the  most  learned  of  the  chub-faced  said  : 

—  Morbleu  !  Julien,  you  must  be  possessed  with  the  devil, 
not  to  have  guessed  that  this  wizard  had  a  lassie  to  teach,  like 
the  old  founder. 

—  And  neighbor  says  he  was   fighting  with  a  naked  old 
woman ha !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  .   .   .  .    Voila  line  ecole  ! 

—  Bony  and  skinny!   ....      Ha!  ha!   ha!  ha  ! 

They  laughed  so  much  and  so  loudly,  that  they  attracted 
the  attention  of  their  companions,  who,  though  enraptured  at 
hearing  of  the  levities  of  the  wizard  with  the  old  woman,  beg- 
ged of  Julien  to  explain  the  cause  of  their  immoderate  laughter. 
He  told  them,  and  they  began  again Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

As  the  end  which  every  writer  ought  to  propose  to  himself, 
is  to  correct  the  vices  of  others,  not  omitting  his  own,  because 
thus  he  will  get  more  profit  from  his  writings,  our  readers  will 
excuse  us  if  we  make  a  little  digression  upon  this  laughter  of 
the  husbandmen  and  villagers  ;  that  is  to  say,  that  what  people 
take  for  wit  is  generally  something  improper  ;  and  nothing  will 
make  the  vulgar,  whether  Spanish,  French,  Italian,  or  of  any 
other  nation,  laugh  more  heartily,  and  we  venture  to  say  more, 
even  the  educated  also,  than  the  use  of  certain  equivoques,  cer- 
tain unchaste  phrases,  certain  indecorous  reticences,  and  certain 
gross  gestures.  This  proves  that  society  is  wanting  in  that 
3 


50  TllH  T\VO  /.17/7A7/.V 

delicacy  which  true  culture  exacts.  Well  would  it  be  if  this 
abuse  in  conversation  were  corrected ;  because  children  hear, 
if  they  do  not  understand,  and  they  remember  when  they  grow 
older.  National  character  is  perpetuated  by  habit,  and  the 
every-day  scenes  of  life,  to  say  nothing  of  climate  and  other 
circumstances  which  education  can  neutralize. 

Returning  to  those  who  were  in  the  inn.  we  may  say  that 
they  passed  a  couple  of  hours  slandering  Schmidt ;  for  when 
the  sage  falls  into  the  hands  of  the  ignorant,  they  put  on  him 
the  schoolmaster's  frock ;  relating  stupidities  of  wizards  and 
witches,  and  stringing  together  horrors  that  had  occurred,  or 
were  to  occur,  in  ruins  and  ancient  castles.  Nothing  entertains 
the  ignorant  better  than  tales  of  wonder,  however  improbable 
they  may  be.  Hence  sprung  the  Novel.  To  pass  the  long 
winter  evenings  it  is  customary,  even  now-a-days,  among  labor- 
ers in  the  country,  to  relate  tales  of  prodigies,  of  enchantments, 
of  chivalry,  of  dark  heroes,  of  magic  or  fables,  and  these  de- 
grees exhibit  the  civilization  of  the  times,  as  well  as  of  the  na- 
tions. Before  the  middle  ages  it  was  enchantment ;  in  the 
middle  age,  the  knight-errant  and  heroes  of  fabulous  cru- 
elty ;  then  the  marvellous-poetic ;  and  finally,  we  owe  to 
the  English  the  Moral  Tale.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  there 
had  been  an  ^Esop,  a  Homer,  Greek  and  Roman  Ages  of 
Gold,  Oriental  Tales,  Arabic,  Chinese  and  Egyptian,  and  of 
other  countries ;  but  we  confine  ourselves  to  modern  society. 
Bonald  says  that  lilcnit  HIT  is  the  expression  of  1hc  <-iri/iz<itii>/t 
of  /In'  mi/ ions ;  and  tlii.s  luminous  principle  ought  to  make  us  weep 
as  we  think  of  what  the  literature  of  our  age  has  become  in  the 
(••lasses  called  illustrious,  in  the  middle  class,  and  among  the 
ignorant.  France,  where  for  our  happiness  we  have  lived  the 
greater  part  of  our  life,  presents  three  classes  more  strongly 
marked  than  any  other  nation  could  exhibit.  The  higher  lias 
its  pens  flowing  with  praises  of  the  aristocracy  and  its  fabulous 
trreatness  ;  the  middle  class  finds  enlightened  writers  who  trace 
it  the  path  of  virtue,  ard  present  to  it  vice  in  its  tr 


THE  R  UlISS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  5  \ 

colors,  though  under  a  certain  veil  of  delicacy ;  and  the  people 
can  unfortunately  count  great  geniuses  who  devote  themselves 
to  teaching  wickedness,  corruption,  and  nauseating  scenes,  pros- 
tituting their  nobleness  of  soul. 

The  French  country  presents  another  picture  different  from 
that  of  the  people  of  the  cities.  The  countryman  of  that  na- 
tion is  stuperstitious ;  believes  in  apparitions,  in  vampyres,  in 
spectres,  in  phantasms,  in  spirits  from  Purgatory,  and  in  all 
that  fanaticism  has  invented.  This  is  easily  accounted  for  ;  it 
is  the  effect  of  religious  education ;  for  although  the  French 
were  to  be  offended  by  it,  which,  however,  we  are  sure  cannot 
happen,  since  we  know  the  good  sense  and  general  enlighten- 
ment of  the  middle  class,  yet  we  could  not  omit  saying  that  its 
agricultural  people  are,  in  our  conception,  the  most  backward 
in  Europe,  notwithstanding  they  are  the  most  hospitable,  per- 
haps, of  all  the  continent ;  but  their  virtues  lose  their  merit  in 
the  contemplation  of  their  defects.  Detraction  and  levity  are 
the  two  poles  of  this  machine,  whose  zodiac  is  superstition. 
For  this  reason  our  readers  need  not  wonder  if  those  who  oc- 
cupy the  scene  before  us,  believe  Schmidt  to  be  a  he-goat,  a 
wizard,  an  enchanter,  a  diabolical  kinsman  of  Satan. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  when  they  began  to  depart,  and 
the  parlor  of  the  public  house,  inn,  or  hotel,  which  was  all  three 
in  one,  became  more  silent.  In  a  corner  were  two  men  playing 
at  draughts  ;  in  another  sat  the  man  who  had  been  silent  all 
the  evening ;  he  was  an  agent  of  police.  Within  the  bar 
or  counter  was  a  girl  with  an  enormous  cap,  that  would  have 
completely  overtopped  the  shako  of  a  royal  Austrian  grenadier, 
stretched  up  to  his  full  height.  From  time  to  time  she  cast  her 
eyes  upon  the  silent  man.  and  they  smiled.  The  draught-play- 
ers gave  over,  and  went  out  disputing  whether  a  certain  piece 
had  not  slipped  a  square  ;  whether  another  was  duly  crowned 
or  not ;  whether  one  party  had  not  neglected  to  take  a  certain 
piece,  or  whether  another  was  properly  huffed,  or  taken  unjustly 
or  in  mistake.  Then  the  agent  of  police  approached  the  gill,. 


52  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

and  after  whispering  to  her  some  words  which  made  her  blush, 
she  asked  him,  to  pass  off  her  confusion,  whether  he  had  heard 
the  conversation  about  the  phantasm  of  the  Paraclete.  The 
man  who  was  dumb  with  men,  but  a  great  talker  with  girls, 
answered  : 

—  Tush  !  what  do  they  know  ?  But  come,  Stephanie,  never 
mind  that ;  answer  me  what  I  just  now  asked  you. 

The  girl  shuffled  about  on  her  seat,  and  almost  set  fire  with 
her  hot  blushes  to  her  immense  cap.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
came  to  her  relief,  wishing  to  close  the  bar-room  which  commu- 
nicated with  the  hotel,  since  it  was  very  possible  that  the  sor- 
cerer and  the  souls  of  the  two  nobles  might  come  seeking  to 
sleep  there,  and  her  husband  was  not  at  home  ;  but  the  police- 
man promised  to  watch  all  night,  and  assured  her  she  might  go 
to  sleep  secured  against  any  soul  from  the  other  world  coming 
into  her  house  ;  reserving  to  himself,  no  doubt,  the  right  to  re- 
main there,  because  he  was  <tf  this  world,  to  which  also  the  girl 
belonged. 

The  golden  cup  of  the  sun  bathes  with  light  the  summits  of 
the  mountains  and  the  ruined  walls  of  the  monastery  of  Abe- 
lard;  the  lizards  thrust  their  eyes,  black,  swollen,  and  with  that 
immobility  which  characterizes  them  through  the  crevices  of  their 
nests ;  some  venture  to  run  along  the  heaps  of  withered  leaves ; 
the  raven  of  the  ruins  has  gone  out  towards  Nogent  de  la  Seine  ; 
while  Schmidt  has  already  been  walking  for  an  hour  within  the 
caverns.  His  two  friends  are  sleeping  placidly,  not  in  aristo- 
cratic beds,  but  upon  some  skins  which  appear  to  them  softer 
than  their  beds  of  down  and  damask.  The  mysterious  man  is 
on  the  side  of  the  ruins  opposite  to  the  apartment  which  they 
occupy,  at  a  distance  great  enough,  as  we  may  imagine  if  we 
consider  the  extent  which  the  ruins  of  a  monastery  like  that 
which  is  the  scene  of  our  narration  would  occupy.  Here  there 
is  respired  another  air,  it  is  another  zone,  the  aspect  is  more 
smiling,  the  objects  which  meet  'the  eye  are  more  attractive. 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  53 

there  is  more  trace  of  civilization,  a  certain  coquetry  is  observa- 
able  in  the  furniture  of  the  apartments,  which  although  contigu- 
ous, do  not  communicate  with  each  other.  The  Franco-German 
has  just  entered  one  on  the  left,  where  a  young  man  of  nineteen 
years  of  age  comes  forward  to  greet  him  with  manifestations  of 
great  love. 

Permit  us  to  give  a  description  of  his  person.  He  is  of  tall 
stature,  of  more  than  five  feet  in  height,  of  herculean  form,  ex- 
panded chest,  broad  shoulders,  powerful  and  nervous  arms,  of 
sympathetic  aspect,  expressive  countenance,  large  full  blue  eyes, 
delicate  lips,  unburdened  brow  which  manifests  great  imagina- 
tion ;  his  features  respire  a  profound  ingenuousness,  in  them  are 
read  exalted  passions,  and  as  it  were,  an  expression  of  reserve 
inherited  from  his  conception ;  his  saffron-colored  hair  he  wears 
drawn  back  and  divided  into  three  compartments ;  his  head  has 
several  scars  on  the  pericranium,  which  are  concealed  by  the 
thickness  of  his  ckevelure ;  when  he  smiles  the  down  of  puberty, 
which  is  a  down  almost  white,  makes  graceful  undulations,  proof 
of  exquisite  sensibility  ;  his  dress  is  simple,  a  blouse  girt  in 
with  a  glazed  swojd-belt,  and  the  shirt  collar  turned  back  reach- 
ing to  the  shoulders,  and  exposing  to  view  the  naked  throat  and 
neck,  which  have  the  marks  of  large  sutures,  signs  of  ancient 
wounds.  At  the  sight  of  Schmidt  he  approaches  him  smiling, 
as  though  drawn  by  the  loadstone  of  filial  love.  After  their 
mutual  salutations,  the  sage,  as  though  taking  pleasure  in  the 
work  of  his  hands,  passes  them  over  the  young  man's  head,  and 
caresses  him  as  the  Arab  does  his  horse,  the  soldier  his  victo- 
rious lance,  the  coquette  the  net  of  her  dress  that  has  taken 
captive  a  hundred  hearts  in  the  mazes  of  a  German  waltz. 
After  the  physician  Jias  with  actions  so  fatherly  manifested  to 
the  young  man  his  fond  affection,  he  says  : 

—  My  son,  I  have  for  some  years  told  you  that  a  day  must 
come  when  I  should  stand  in  need  of  you  ;  it  has  come. 

—  I  am  ready  for  all   that  my  kind  father  by  adoption  re- 
quires of  me. 


54  'Mil'-'  T\\'U 

The  large  blue  eyes  of  the  young  man  are  fired  with  enthusi- 
asm at  the  thought  of  being  able  to  execute,  as  yet.  he  knows 
not  what ;  those  of  Schmidt  no  smaller,  and  of  the  same  color, 
respire  satisfaction. 

—  Well,  I  will  presently  tell  you  what   I  wish  you  to  do. 
Have  you  seen  your  companion  this  morning  ? 

—  No,  doctor,  I  have  but  just  completed  my  ablutions. 

—  Very  well ;   until  a  few  minutes  to  seven  you  may  study, 
and  analyze  in  the  chemical  laboratory  what  you  began  yester- 
day.    Salute  her  for  me.     Adieu  ! 

Schmidt  turns  away,  putting  his  hand  upon  his  head,  and 
goes  out :  the  youth  inclines  himself  as  though  to  receive  a 
breath  of  intelligence  from  the  brawny  hand  of  him  who  was 
doubtless  his  professor. 

While  this  was  happening,  the  Count  and  the  Baron  had 
awoke  ;  a  refulgent  ray  of  the  sun,  which  lighted  up  the  cham- 
ber, serving  as  their  valet  de  chambre  in  announcing  to  them 
the  hour.  Seldom  in  their  lives  had  they  experienced  the  satis- 
faction imparted  by  the  fresh  breeze  of  mornkig,  the  aromas  of 
the  fields  and  the  glowing  sun,  with  such  ineffable  pleasure  as 
on  this  day.  Schmidt  heard  them  talking,  and  entered  to 
salute  them.  The  nobles  immediately  entered  into  an  ani- 
mated conversation  upon  the  wonders  they  had  experienced ; 
but  they  found  the  sage  meditative,  downcast,  and  absorbed. 
They  were  not  surprised  to  see  him  thus,  because  nothing  is 
more  natural  in  the  brightest  genius  than  these  involuntary 
transitions.  Controlled  by  this  paralyzation  of  the  senses,  he 
mechanically  invited  them  to  leave  the  place,  and  was  appa- 
rently conducting  them  to  the  scene  of  the  preceding  evening's 
transactions,  when  the  same  mental  absorption  gave  rise  to  an 
incident  which  deserves  the  attention  of  the  reader,  and  which 
extraordinarily  astonished  the  two  nobles,  occasioning  in  the 
sage  one  of  those  smiles  that  were  in  him  preludes  of  grand  re- 
velations. As  we  were  saying,  he  went  along  like  an  automa- 


THE  RUISS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  55 

ton,  making  the  nobles  tread  again  those  dismal  galleries,  when 
without  thinking  of  what  he  was  doing,  he   opened  a  door,  and 
heard  Kant  and  de  Vieux  exclaim  with  surprise  and  fear : 
-  What  is  this,  Schmidt  ? 

—  What  horror  is  this,  Doctor  1 

That  which  occasioned  these  exclamations,  was  the  sight  of  a 
young  woman  of  from  twenty-three  to  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
who  lay  stretched  on  a  kind  of  bed,  enveloped  in  some  dreadful 
apparatus  of  a  peculiar  construction.  Her  bosom  heaved  with 
agitation,  and  around  her  bed  were  seen  patches  of  blood  which 
the  tremendous  knife  of  the  terrible  Doctor  had  some  time  be- 
fore made  run  on  the  ground.  At  the  exclamations  of  the 
strangers  the  sage  recollected  himself,  and  a  smile  passing 
over  his  face,  which  was  very  soon  changed  to  a  frown,  he  said 
to  them  : 

—  All  cannot  be  told,  and  still  less  seen  ;  it  has  been  an  im- 
prudence on  my  part,  have  the  goodness  to  pass  out  again  by 
this  door. 

And  without  more  ado  he  turned  round  to  go  out.  His  im- 
perious voice  cut  short  the  nobles,  who  followed  him  like  little 
lambs.  Over  the  countenance  of  Schmidt  passed  and  repassed 
a  hundred  passions,  emotions,  gestures.  It  was  half  past  five  in 
the  morning,  the  sky  augured  a  hot  day  and  a  motionless  at- 
mosphere, the  head  of  the  sage  was  a  volcano  in  movement ;  on 
reaching  the  door  he  turned  back,  looked  sternly  at  the  two 
companions,  and  said  to  them  : 

—  Why  mysteries  where  there  ought  to  be   none  ?     Let  us 
go  to  the  bed-side  of  this  poor  creature,  and  before  her  I  will 
explain  to  you  what  causes  you  so  much  horror. 

They  approached.  The  patient  raised  her  eyes  full  of  grati- 
tude at  the  sound  of  Schmidt's  voice  saying  to  her : 

—  My  daughter,  have  your  pains  been  any  less  to-night  ] 

She  was  about  to  reply,  when  turning  her  eyes  towards  the 
companions  of  her  beneficent  restorer  to  life  and  health,  she 
raised  her  hands,  with  the  left  she  covered  her  eyes,  and  with 


56  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

the  right  she  pointed  to  the  Baron,  who   stood  like  a  criminal 
caught  unawares,  and  with  a  desolating  cry,  she  said: 

—  That  is  the  wretch,  Doctor,  that  noble,  that  tiger 
that  is  the  Baron  de  Vieux 

The  patient  fainted.  Schmidt  looked  at  the  Baron  with 
eyes  that  flashed  lightning.  Kant  drew  back  seized  with  amaze- 
ment, and  de  Vieux  recovering  himself,  burst  into  a  laugh, 
saying : 

—  Gentlemen,  this  is  the  mad  girl  of  my  country-house  on 
the  banks  of  the  Seine,  the  daughter  of  one  of  my  tenants,  who, 
through  I  know  not  what  aberration  of  her  disorder.  h:is  these 
three  years  hated  me  with  deadly  hate.     And  how  has  she 
passed  into  your  hands,  Doctor  ? 

While  the  audacious  nobleman  was  speaking,  Schmidt  was 
attending  to  his  victim,  restoring  her  to  consciousness,  which 
done,  he  replied,  choking  with  indignation  : 

—  M.  de  Vieux,  this   unfortunate  girl  is  not  mad,  she  is  as 
sane  as  you  are   libertine,  she  is   one   of  your  victims  ;   I  have 
taken  her  under  my  care  to  cure  her  of  a  disease  she  owed,  as 
I  believe,  to  you :  retire,  for  you  are  insulting  one  whom,  to 
satisfy  your  ferocious    appetites,   you  have   nearly  murdered ; 
whom  you  have  poisoned,  whose  brains  you  have  shattered. 

Trembling  with  rage  he  seized  the  bugle,  made  the  vaults 
resound  with  its  lugubrious  notes,  told  the  patient  to  apply  to 
her  nostrils  a  smelling-bottle  he  took  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
seizing  the  Baron  with  his  powerful  hand,  went  out  by  the  door 
opposite  to  that  by  which  he  had  entered,  and  which  communi- 
cated with  the  dissecting-room,  adding  : 

—  Out  here  we  will  say  adieu !  and  I  will  give  you  one  word 
of  advice. 

The  Baron  smiled,  freed  himself  from  the  iron  hand  that  so 
tightly  held  his  arm.  and  assuming  the  imperious  air  which  char- 
acterizes the  uneducated  nobility,  expressed  in  his  countenance 
the  contempt  which  the  obscure  Galen  inspired  in  him,  and  the 
indignation  which  was  boiling  in  his  breast. 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CL  ETE.  5  7 

De  Vieux  was  one  of  those  stains  upon  the  French  nobility 
which  are  not  wanting,  either,  in  the  elevated  classes  of  other 
nations,  for  whom  their  fantastic  birth  seems  to  possess  a  super- 
human merit,  to  which  all  ought  to  humble  themselves  submis- 
sive and  subservient.  The  virtue  of  the  daughters  of  the  peo- 
ple wa:.'  for  him  a  toy  which  the  nobleman  might  play  with,  like 
a  flower  which  we  pull  to  pieces  in  the  fingers,  or  dandle  at 
our  nostrils  till  it  fades,  and  then  throw  away,  as  a  useless 
vestige  of  the  momentary  pleasure  given  us;  the  maidens, 
the  wives  of  the  proletarian  class  had  been  born  to  obey  the 
nobleman,  to  become  the  prey  of  his  unbridled  lust,  his  omni- 
potent immorality  :  God  said  to  Samuel  when  he  presented  the 
petition  of  the  people  of  Israel,  who  would  have  a  king  :  de- 
spising not  Samuel,  but  God :  '•  This  will  be  the  manner  of  the 
king  that  shall  reign  over  you :  He  will  take  your  sons  and 
appoint  them  for  himself,  for  his  chariots,  and  his  horsemen, 
and  to  ear  his  ground,  and  to  reap  his  harvest,  and  to  make  his 
instruments  of  war.  And  he  will  take  your  daughters  to  be  con- 
fectionaries,  and  cooks,  and  bakers."  And  the  Baron,  like  many 
of  his  sort,  assumed  the  right,  which  they  call  divine,  as  abso- 
lute law,  to  tread  under  foot  those  beautiful  flowers,  the  daugh- 
ters of  the  people,  which  perfume  the  world  with  sweet-smelling 
virtues.  The  Baron  knew  no  other  morality  than  his  thirst  for 
pleasures,  nor  any  other  God,  as  St  Paul  says,  than  his  belly. 

While  they  were  passing  in  silence  through  the  subterranean 
galleries,  he  said  to  himself: — By  what  right  has  this  scarecrow 
plebeian  insulted  me,  a  noble,  in  the  four  quarters  of  my  escutch- 
eon ?  Because  I  have  amused  myself  with  an  ignorant  coun- 
try girl  who  believed  me  her  slave,  like  the  shepherd  girls  of 
Florian  the  rustic  swains  ?  Now  I  will  just  give  a  lesson  to 
this  foolish  man,  who  fancies  himself  superior  to  those  whom 
God  has  placed  in  the  world  to  whip  with  iron  rods  the  reptiles 
that  crawl  over  their  cradle  of  mud.  This  middle  class,  which 
in  the  revolutions  of  political  affairs  now  usurps  the  name  of 
enlightened,  wishes  to  seize  from  our  doors  tho  arms  of  the 
3* 


WT11E  T\\'0 

prowess  of  our  ancestors.  It  is  our  own  fault.  Miserable 
man  !  skeleton  inhabitant  of  tombs,  who  has  inspired  you  to  in- 
sult the  descendant  of  the  valiant  de  Vieux  ? 

Thus  discoursed  the  French  nobleman.  Kant,  who  knew 
how  far  the  cynical  effrontery  of  his  friend  would  go,  and  the 
horror  that  Schmidt  had  for  the  nobility,  prepared  himself  to 
tranquillize  this  tempest  with  the  breath  of  friendship.  Schmidt 
was  livid  with  the  rage  that  devoured  him.  They  arrived  at 
the  designated  place,  and  the  sage  disappeared,  giving  them 
time  to  make  some  reflections. 

He  did  not  keep  them  waiting  long.  At  the  moment  when, 
with  hurried  step  he  entered,  the  Baron  was,  as  it  were,  pos- 
sessed, vomiting  abuse  upon  Schmidt. 

—  Enough,  M.  de   Vieux,  enough.     I  knew  you,  some  time 
ago. — said  Schmidt,  with  convulsive  laughter — though  I   have 
never  had  the  misfortune  to  see  you  before  ;  but  remember  that 

HE    WHO  TAKES    THE    SWORD  SHALL    PERISH  BY  THE    SWORD  ;    and 

the  sons  of  the  people  will  know  how  to  take  reprisals  on  the 
daughters  of  the  great  in  name. 

The  Baron,  his  tongue  cleaving  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth 
with  rage,  began  to  heap  insults  on  the  savant ;  but  the  latter 
looked  at  Kant  and  said  : 

—  My  friend,  take  this  miserable  man  away  ;   for  the  blood 
of  the  people  is  red   as  fire  which  consumes,  and  theirs  is  blue, 
like  the  flame  which  only  singes.     Quick  ! — cried  he  with  voice 
of  thunder — quick  !  out  from  hence  ! 

His  countenance  was  so  terrible  that  Kant  seized  the  arm 
of  de  Vieux.  and,  half  pushing  him,  took  him  towards  the  slo- 
ping passage ;  but  de  Vieux.  before  closing  the  door,  cried  to 
Schmidt : 

—  Miserable  man  !  I  will  make  you   die  on  the  guillotine, 
you  shall  not  even  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  the  gallows. 

The  noblemen  went  out,  and  Schmidt  ran  to  the  western 
part  of  the  ruins,  contiguous  to  the  entrance  of  the  caves,  where 
on  the  wall  which  fronted  the  lane  to  Nogent.  straddling  across 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  59 

the  back  of  an  ogive  covered  with  shrub-ivy,  was  the  youth  of 
nineteen,  whom  we  saw  the  doctor  visit  half  an  hour  before. 
The  latter  ascended  the  pile  of  ruins,  took  the  hand  of  the 
youth,  and  placing  his  own  upon  his  shoulder  to  enter  the  thick 
foliage,  pointed  out  to  him  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  and  said : 

—  Look  well  at  the  taller  of  the  two  who  are  about  to  come 
out ;  with  that  marvellous  memory  which  you  possess,  imprint 
his  image  deeply  upon  your  mind,  so  that  you  may  be  able  to 
recognize  him  wherever  he  may  be  found :  hereafter  I  will  tell 
you  why. 

In  that  moment  Kant  and  de  Vieux  passed  out  in  front, 
talking  very  warmly.  Schmidt  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the 
Baron,  his  arm  trembling  ;  the  boy  fixed  upon  him  his  greedy 
eyes — the  raven  croaking  passed  over  the  travellers'  heads,  and 
came  to  place  himself  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  sage ; — the 
ruined  wall  on  which  they  were,  began  to  fall  with  their  weight, 
and  made  them  drop  down  ; — the  boy  looked  at  Schmidt  and  said 
to  him  : 

—  Never,  beloved  Doctor,  shall  the  countenance  of  this  man 
be  effaced  from  my  mind. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE  soul  of  man  does  assuredly  enjoy  the  semi-divine  faculty 
of  being  present  successively  in  all  places.  Ours  is  at  this  mo- 
ment in  the  torrid  zone,  and  sees  one  of  those  tropical  rains 
which  sweep  even  to  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and  recall  the 
fearful  cataclysm  of  Noah.  Ash-colored  clouds  cross  the  sky, 
seeming  to  speak  to  each  other  in  their  swift  career,  and  with 
the  re-echoing  thunder,  utter  the  rage  with  which  they  are 
bursting.  The  beautiful  velvet  sky  is  covered  with  vaporous 
spectres,  which,  by  an  optical  delusion  assimilate  themselves  to 
terrible  monsters,  which  roar,  and  on  opening  their  mouths 
vomit  flame.  Every  peal  threatens  to  crack  the  world's  axis  : 
the  rain,  or  rather  the  impetuous  immeasurable  torrent  which 
is  poured  out,  makes  one  believe  no  foundations  will  be  left  to 
the  abodes  of  men  :  the  streets  are  rapid  rivers,  the  roads 
branches  of  the  sea,  the  pastures  portentous  lakes ;  the  buds, 
the  branches  of  the  trees,  bend  low,  as  though  seeking  pity. 
The  rattling  of  the  rain  upon  the  roofs  makes  us  raise  our 
heads  to  see  if  its  fury  is  throwing  off  the  tiles  and  the  roofs  : 
and  it  drowns  the  dweller  in  miserable  huts.  An  hour  after 
the  thunder  has  ceased,  the  water  imitates  drops  of  dew,  weep- 
ing for  the  outrages  which,  ceding  to  the  violence  of  the  clouds, 
it  has  committed  ;  the  sky  spreads  out  its  satin  mantle  ;  the  sun. 
at  the  close  of  the  evening,  shines  sadly  at  not  being  able  to 
wipe  away  the  tears  of  its  beloved  earth  ;  the  streets  are  clean. 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  6 1 

as  though  there  were  a  police  in  South  America ;  the  features  of 
the  inhabitants  are  smiling.  Like  this  is  the  wrath  of  the  sage 
against  men ;  like  this  appears  the  spacious  forehead  and  ma- 
jestic countenance  of  Schmidt.  There  are  yet  passing  the  last 
traces  of  the  dark  clouds  of  his  indignation  ;  but  they  bear  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow. 

It  is  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Paraclete  have  breakfasted,  and  the  sage  Schmidt  is  lying  in  the 
shade  of  the  contiguous  grove,  permitting  the  affectionate  and 
intelligent  raven  to  clean  his  long  beard.  On  a  little  mound 
formed  by  the  ruins  of  the  edifice,  and  bristling  with  tangled 
shrubs,  are  two  young  people,  with  one  of  whom  we  are  already 
acquainted ;  the  other  is  a  girl  of  fifteen,  with  a  fine  noble 
figure,  German  countenance,  blond  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  upon 
the  snow,  with  large,  full,  azure  eyes,  with  a  seductive  look, 
which  tells  what  lies  concealed  within  her  alabaster  virgin 
breast.  Her  hands  are  playing  with  the  saffron-colored  head 
of  the  youth  ;  and  such  is  the  whiteness  of  her  skin,  that  each 
finger  resembles  a  piece  of  turned  ivory,  and  the  hands  cot- 
ton flocks.  Her  hands  are  not  small  like  those  of  the  aristo- 
crats, they  are  of  more  than  middle  size,  and  with  long  fin- 
gers ;  but  they  have  a  certain  I  know  not  what,  which,  while  it 
sends  the  youth  to  sleep,  would  make  the  most  pious  Theatin 
quiver  with  emotion.  Many  times  the  playful  breeze  makes 
her  tresses  wave,  and  arouse  him  who  is  half  asleep,  stealthily 
kissing  them,  and  seizing  them  with  his  lips,  as  though  they 
were  filaments  of  silk.  What  she  is  thinking  while  playing 
with  the  thick  strong  hair  of  Hector,  as  her  companion  is  called, 
no  one  can  penetrate ;  for  to  do  that  we  must  noeds  preserve 
the  innocence  of  fifteen  years,  which  beyond  that  age  is  no  more, 
and  before  that  age  we  do  not  reflect. 

What  he  suffers  stretched  upon  the  grass,  with  his  head 
placed  on  her  knees,  may  be  imagined  by  one  who,  with  a  soul 
of  fire,  has  loved  at  nineteen  years  of  age,  knowing  only  one 
woman,  and  that  woman  an  extraordinary  being  educated  in  the 


62  TllK  T\YO  FATHERS. 

school  of  Schmidt.  Near  him  is  a  book,  near  her  another  ; 
but  both  shut.  He  is  lying  on  one  side  with  one  leg  under  the 
other,  with  the  right  leg  stretched  out  trembling,  and  the  foot 
resting  on  a  stone ;  suddenly  he  raises  himself  up,  looks  at  the 
girl  with  an  expression  of  delight,  and  smiling,  says  to  her : 

—  My  Rosamunda,  now  I  am  going  to  read  you  a  chapter 
on  the  history  of  the  hearts  of  men  :   I  will  sit  up  as  you  are 
doing,  you  lie  down  on  my  knees  and  listen,  and  afterwards  tell 
me  what  you  think,  and  we  can  discuss  it. 

Rosamunda  draws  together  the  skirts  of  her  morning  gown, 
stands  up,  clasps  the  dress  between  her  knees,  stoops  to  cover 
herself  well  down  to  the  ankle,  rests  one  hand  upon  the  ground, 
stretches  herself,  and  lays  her  ringlet-flowing  head  on  the  left 
knee  of  Hector.  Her  countenance,  raised  towards  him,  has  an 
air  so  candidly  passionate,  that  her  eyes  appear  two  fountains 
of  pleasure  as  they  look  intently  upon  the  youth.  He  begins  to 
read,  but  at  every  fourth  word  looks  aside,  and  four  eyes  meet 
which  rival,  and  not  in  color  alone,  the  heavens  above  them. 
Both  smile. 

—  Come,  go  on. 

—  But  don't  look  at  me. 

—  Now  that  is  your  fault ;  you  hold  the  book  on  one  side, 
and  the  words  come  flying  from  the  corner  of  your  eye. 

—  It  will  be  better  not  to  read 

—  And  why  not  ? 

—  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  my  chest,  I  feel  tired. 

—  Are  you  not  well  ? 

—  Yes  ;  but  let  me  play  with  your  curls,  and  tell  me  what 
you  were  thinking  when  I  began  to  read  ? 

—  I  was  looking  at  your  mouth  ;  you  have  very  thin  lips, 
and  our  doctor  says  it  is  the  sign  of 

—  Of  nothing ;  because  he  also  says  that  the  machine  of  the 
body  has  a  motive   power  without  forms,  which  knows  how. 
which  can.  which  ought  to  impose  them  upon  matter  according 
to  its  own  nature. 


THE  tiUIXS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  63 

—  Very  good. 

—  What  beautiful  hair  you  have,  sweet  Rosamunda ! 

The  breeze  freshens  and  blows  open  the  morning  gown,  ex- 
posing to  view  the  white  and  chiselled  leg  of  the  beauteous  girl 
as  far  as  the  spot  where  her  sex  are  accustomed  to  place  the 
garter.  Thus  far  travel  the  eyes  of  Hector  when  they  become 
dim  •  he  turns  pale,  softly  pushes  his  sweet  companion  from 
him,  starts  to  his  feet,  and  says  to  her : 

—  Now,  my   Rosamunda,  I  will  return  ;    I  have  forgotten 
something  the  doctor  ordered  me  to  do. 

The  sudden  movement  astonishes  her.  At  the  moment  of 
Hector's  rising,  a  voice  is  heard  at  some  distance  from  the  spot 
where  they  are,  and  the  words — 

—  Well  done  !  bravo  !  the  intellectual  man  conquers  ! 

It  is  Schmidt,  who  glories  to  see  Hector,  in  whose  counte- 
nance he  has  read  the  most  ardent  passion,  fleeing  from  the 
side  of  the  sympathetic  woman,  because  he  fears  to  be  domi- 
nated by  his  body.  At  the  sound  of  their  adopted  father's  voice, 
which  repeats  "  well  done  !  bravo  !"  both  of  the  young  people, 
who  till  that  moment  have  been  ignorant  he  is  so  near,  run  up 
to  him  and  place  their  heads  upon  his  breast.  The  doctor  ca- 
resses them,  and  says : 

—  You  were  thinking,  no  doubt,  that  the  world  had  come  to 
an  end,  that  the   ruins  of  the  Paraclete  were  its  remains,  and 
that  you  were  the  only  inhabitants  of  the  universe.     Love  one 
another,  but  look  up  at  the  heavens,  there  is  an  eye  which  covers 
all  their  circumference,  which  searches  with  its  lightning  flashes 
the  folds  of  the  heart,  which  has  open  before  its  sight  the  hearts 
of  mortals,  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  the  sandy  bosom  of  the 
sea.      Now  you  were  going   to   the  gymnastic  exercises,  were 
you  not  ? 

—  No,  Doctor ;  Hector  only  was  going  to  do  something  which 
you  bid  him — said  she,  candidly. 

—  Then  go,  and  perform  some  gymnastic  exercises  iii  uiy 
presence. 


64  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

All  go  out  towards  a  bramble  thicket,  and  as  though  by  en- 
chantment, they  disappear  from  the  surface.  We  must  now 
say  who  these  young  people  are,  so  far  as  relates  to  their  exist- 
ence in  the  Paraclete,  because  the  beginning  of  their  lives  is 
unknown  even  to  their  adoptive  father. 

It  is  nine  years  that  Hector  has  lived  with  Schmidt,  and 
eight,  more  or  less,  since  Ilosamunda  knew  him  as  her  benefac- 
tor. Both  passed  through  a  rude  school  in  the  early  part  of 
their  residence  with  the  sage ;  but  they  have  forgotten  it  by 
force  of  kindness  on  his  part.  They  travelled  with  him,  passing 
for  his  children,  through  part  of  Italy,  Germany,  Switzerland, 
and  France ;  and  now,  for  one  year  past,  they  have  lived  in  the 
Paraclete.  Their  bodies  have  undergone  a  regeneration,  and 
the  intellectual  part  has  been  created  by  the  Gallo-German  in 
his  own  fashion.  All  the  passions  have  their  seat  in  their  souls 
in  an  eminent  degree  of  exaltation,  playing  in  all  their  bodies 
in  a  wonderful  manner  ;  the  blood  of  one  circulates  in  the  heart 
of  the  other,  and  the  life  of  him  in  her,  they  are  two  individual- 
ities singularized ;  they  understand  each  other  at  a  glance,  they 
tremble  as  they  look  at  each  other,  they  feel  the  same  emotions, 
almost  think  alike ;  it  might  be  said  Schmidt  had  formed  an 
Eve  from  Hector,  and  an  Adam  from  Rosamunda.  For  so  ten- 
der an  age  they  are  prodigies  of  intelligence  :  natural  and  ab- 
stract sciences,  arts,  mysterious  knowledge,  every  thing  in  the 
intellectual  sphere  rolls  in  their  heads  with  the  same  concert 
and  variety  as  the  globes  in  space.  They  feel  the  pricks  of  the 
flesh,  which  seem  to  them  electric  sparks  that  vanish  and  spiri- 
tualize themselves  on  separating  from  the  tube,  or  the  chain,  or 
the  rod  which  puts  them  into  contact  with  the  machine  of  the 
body.  Schmidt  has  succeeded  in  balancing  two  forces  so  con- 
trary, has  caused  them  to  feel,  but  control,  to  enjoy,  but  com- 
mand ;  to  see  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  but  fly  with  the  spirit 
and  not  permit  the  body  to  be  dragged  along  the  heavy  marly 
earth.  What  it  costs  others  ten  years  to  learn,  they  know  in 
ten  months ;  because  their  organs  have  been  polished,  perfected, 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  55 

made  capable  of  learning  with  a  hundred  times  more  facility 
than  those  of  the  rest  of  mankind,  who  have  to  acquire  know- 
ledge by  force  of  persevering  exertion.  What  advantages  has  not 
this  marvellous  man  drawn  from  his  attempts  ?  It  is  true  he 
has  sacrificed  many  victims  to  science  ;  but  how  many  millions 
is  he  not  about  to  save  ?  And,  as  he  said  to  the  noblemen,  it 
was  not  for  himself,  but  for  entire  humanity.  Two  beings 
like  his  pupils  must  promise  much.  But  has  he  educated 
them  for  good,  or  for  evil?  What  end  has  he  had  in  these 
strange  ideas?  He  has  suffered  much,  as  his  exclamations  and 
eccentricities  reveal.  Will  he  keep  all  the  life  of  these  two 
wonders  to  himself,  burying  his  works  without  obtaining  the 
amelioration  of  the  human  race,  or  is  he  going  to  send  them  out 
into  the  world  to  be  a  scourge  to  society,  and  revenge  the  out- 
rages he  has  received  from  it  ?  We  make  these  and  a  hundred 
other  such  questions,  and  every  body  will  do  the  same,  but  we 
find  at  present  no  means  of  getting  at  any  clue  to  the  kind  of 
labyrinth  in  which  Schmidt  places  us  as  to  the  future. 

We  take  this  opportunity  of  making  one  remark.  If  the 
people  do  bastardize  their  noble  sentiments,  it  is  the  nobles  of 
the  earth  who  show  them  the  way.  But  let  us  look  at  Hector 
and  Rosamunda,  before  they  commence  their  exercises  in  the 
acrobatic  gymnasium. 

To  say  that  these  two  young  people,  educated  with  so  much 
liberty,  with  so  much  science,  with  such  development,  conserve 
the  innocence  of  children  at  an  age  so  advanced,  would  be  to 
draw  down  ridicule  upon  them  ;  thence  we  must  confess,  that 
Schmidt  instead  of  educating  has  spoiled  their  natures.  No  ! 
the  sage  has  conciliated  the  body  and  the  mind,  and  if  in  the 
future  they  continue  as  they  now  are,  the  Franco-German  will 
sleep  out  the  dream  of  eternity  undisturbed  by  agonizing  night- 
mares ;  and  these  will  prove  that  while  the  bistoury  in  inexpe- 
rienced hands  gives  death,  in  wise  fingers  it  gives  life  ;  that  while 
science  in  the  ignorant  kills,  in  the  intelligent  it  is  a  fountain 
of  delights ;  that  while  the  good  heart  in  the  uncultivated  is 


66  THE  TWO  FATHER*. 

foolishness,  in  the  truly  enlightened  it  becomes  exquisite  sensi- 
bility. 

In  the  eastern  part  of  the  ruins  is  the  site  of  the  porch,  the 
cloisters,  the  large  halls  of  the  monastery,  which  still  exist, 
though  a  pile  of  ruins,  all  living,  as  Aristotle  says,  and  all 
dead.  The  cloistered  court,  which  doubtless  served  for  the  con- 
ferences of  the  founder  with  his  numerous  disciples,  has  still 
many  columns  standing,  and  one  who  visited  it  at  this  moment, 
would  see  that  much  work  has  been  done  in  clearing  the  ground 
of  grass,  covering  it  with  sandy  earth,  and  forming  an  amphi- 
theatre of  stones,  bricks,  rubbish,  and  the  crumbling  materials 
of  the  edifice;  the  area  of  which"  presents  the  appearance  of  a 
gymnasium  in  miniature  of  the  times  of  the  Thebans.  as  though 
indeed  they  had  just  abandoned  it.  Schmidt,  Hector,  Rosa- 
munda,  and  Jose,  have  converted  the  spacious  court  into  an 
arena,  which,  while  as  rustic  as  simple  nature,  invites  to  the 
wrestle,  the  race,  acrobatic  and  gymnastic  exercises ;  and  in 
fact,  there  are  estrapades,  trapeziums,  parallels,  cords,  poles, 
ladders,  bars  of  iron,  weights  enormous  for  a  man  of  society, 
and  very  heavy  even  for  a  laborer.  On  one  side,  under  cover, 
are  hanging  some  pantaloons  of  Scotch  plaid,  a  Greek  cap,  and 
a  corset  with  a  broad  belt.  Between  a  ruined  ogive  enters 
the  sympathetic  Rosamunda,  takes  down  the  dress,  and  retires, 
but  not  so  as  to  hinder  our  seeing  her  toilet.  She  gives  us  no 
time  to  see  how  she  puts  on  the  broad  pantaloon,  we  can  only 
observe  that  she  girds  her  turned  leg  with  tb6  strings  that  ad- 
just it  round  the  ankle  ;  that  she  passes  her  fingers  rapidly  over 
the  hem,  and  forms  a  hundred  plaits;  then  with  heavenly  smile 
although  she  is  alone,  she  puts  one  arm  through  the  shoulder- 
strap  of  the  corset,  and  before  this  can  be  adjusted,  a  movement 
of  her  bosom  is  distinguishable  through  the  fabric  of  her  che- 
mise, so  agitated  that  if  Hector  were  present,  he  would  tremble 
with  emotion.  Now  the  strings  are  passed  round,  the  corset  is 
fairly  on,  she  binds  her  delicious  waist.  The  favorite  odalisk 
of  AH  Tebelen,  did  not  present  to  the  eyes  of  the  cynical  Mus- 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  57 

sulman  forms  more  seductive  than  this  beautiful  girl  displays  as 
she  ties  her  rich  blond  chevelure  with  a  ribbon,  and  crowns 
herself  with  the  Greek  cap,  which  she  fastens  with  two  green 
cords  around  her  noble  temples.  One  who  was  watching  her 
would  say  that  Rosamuncla  had  just  crowned  herself  as  one  of 
the  daughters  of  the  Spartans  in  the  Olympic  G-ames,  She  sits 
down  upon  a  stone  seat,  takes  off  her  shoes,  to  encase  her  feet 
in  boots  of  yellow  buckskin,  and  before  the  strings  of  these  are 
fully  laced,  we  can  observe  that  if  her  foot  is  not  small ;  it  has  a 
certain  I  know  not  what  charm,  which  bedims  the  eyes.  Now 
she  is  entirely  equipped :  she  gives  some  thumps  on  the  ground 
with  her  feet,  which  glide  along  with  marvellous  lightness ; 
then  she  pushes  down  the  pantaloon,  that  her  waist  might 
be  at  perfect  liberty,  strikes  out  her  arms  as  though  to  find 
their  flexibility,  appears  to  defy  Hector,  and  with  forms  of 
Apollo,  tacitly  challenges  a  Hercules ;  but  she  trusts  in  her 
greater  agility.  She  gives  two  claps  of  the  hands,  and  fixes  her 
inebriated  eyes  of  blue  on  the  side  opposite  to  that  where  she  is 
standing.  During  all  this  time  there  is  one  observing  her ;  it 
is  not  Hector,  it  is  Schmidt ;  and  at  every  action,  at  every 
movement,  at  every  bend  which  Rosamunda  gives  to  her  deli- 
cious body,  the  soge  smiles.  It  may  seem  strange  that  Schmidt, 
seeing  the  trouble  of  Hector  while  they  were  playing  on  the 
mound,  should  send  them  to  the  gymnasium  ;  but  he  has  power- 
ful reasons  for  conquering  man  by  giving  him  more  develop- 
ment. •  - 

He  who  wishes  youth  to  reach  manly  age  with  a  certain 
degree  of  morality,  physical,  so  to  speak,  must  in  certain  mo- 
ments tire,  exercise,  molest,  agitate,  govern  the  body,  and  this 
is  the  only,  or  most  efficacious  means  of  avoiding  effeminacy. 
Schmidt  know.s  that  the  attention  concentrates  itself  in  the 
execution  of  gymnastic  movements  ;  Schmidt  knows  that  the 
body  is  then  in  another  hemisphere ;  that  the  animal  life 
changes  the  object  of  its  forces,  and  he  seeks  to  teach  with 
facts,  without  by-words  further  awakening  the  man,  and  to  leave 


68  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

yet  some  time  longer  unroused  in  the  woman  the  dream  of  her 
maturer  power.  Although  he  has  told  them  to  exercise  them- 
selves in  his  presence,  he  does  not  wish  to  be  seen,  and  will  re- 
main in  his  hiding-place  till  they  have  finished ;  for  afterward 
he  wishes  to  speak  with  Hector  ;  and  from  the  arching  of  his 
eyebrows,  when  he  announced  it  to  the  young  man,  it  may  be 
judged  that  what  he  is  going  to  tell  him  is  something  terrible. 
The  graceful  Rosamunda  a  second  time  claps  her  hands ;  nor 
does  so  in  vain  ;  from  the  further  end,  as  coming  from  a  cavern, 
Hector  appears,  with  no  further  alteration  in  his  dress  than  an 
outer  flannel  shirt,  adjusted  to  his  athletic  waist  by  a  band  of  yel- 
low leather.  The  exercises  commence  ;  the  flexibility  of  the  wo- 
man masters  the  man  ;  his  colossal  strength  overcomes  her  ;  the 
lightness  of  the  sylph  charms,  the  limpidity  of  the  youth 
astonishes.  Auriol  would  not  find  the  diversion  tedious ;  but 
we  will  content  ourselves  with  saying,  that  every  surpassing 
thing  presented  by  the  Circus  of  Franconi  in  Paris,  of  Gucrra 
in  Vienna,  of  Paul  in  Madrid,  all  is  executed  with  incomparable 
perfection.  The  Gymnasium  of  Amoros,  which  although  a 
Spaniard  he  has  established  in  Paris,  has  turned  out  brilliant 
youths,  athletic  men,  girls  pre-eminent  in  strength  and  flexibi- 
lity, has  corrected  a  thousand  corporeal,  and  perhaps  spiritual 
defects,  has  done  great  good  to  humanity :  but  Hector  and 
Rosamunda  have  nothing  to  envy  the  disciples  of  the  Count  of 
Soteldo. 

Sh/  is  swinging  with  voluptuous  negligence  in  the  estrapade, 
and  her  companion,  stretched  upon  the  ground,  covered  with 
perspiration,  is  contemplating  her  sheepishly  ;  for  she  has  a  pecu 
liar  beauty,  that  without  belonging  either  to  the  Greek,  or  Italian, 
the  ideal,  or  the  Flemish  school,  or  having  any  strongly  marked 
type,  recalls  all  of  them,  while  what  assuredly  makes  the  blood 
of  Hector  boil,  is  the  softness  of  her  flesh  ;  it  is  a  mass  of 
kneaded  dough,  with  the  apparent  consistency  of  Carrara  mar- 
ble ;  it  is  satin,  with  armor  of  steel ;  it  is  .  .  .  .  Hector  knows 
not  what  it  is ;  but  he  knows  its  extraordinary  power  over  him. 


THE  K  UJLNS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  69 

The  countenance  of  Hector  has  an  expression  so  melancholy, 
that  in  one  of  the  undulations  made  by  Rosamunda,  with  that 
freedom  which  would  remind  our  readers  of  the  graceful  Ro- 
man rope-dancer,  Marietta,  she  says  to  him  : 

—  Hector,  what  is  the  matter  ?     Your  countenance  makes 
me  sad.     What  are  you  thinking  about  ? 

He  to  whom  the  delicious  girl  has  spoken,  remains  absorbed 
in  his  ideas,  and  it  is  not  till  a  few  moments  have  passed,  that, 
as  though  waking  up  out  of  an  inadvertent  dream,  he  replies : 

—  What  were  you  saying,  Rosamunda  ? 

—  What   are  you  thinking  about  ?     Why  is  your  counte- 
nance so  sad? 

Instead  of  replying,  a  tear  comes  into  his  eyes,  which  being 
seen  by  her,  she  springs  suddenly  into  the  arena,  leaving  no  trace 
of  her  footstep,  and  sits  down  anxiously  beside  the  youth,  ask- 
ing him  a  hundred  questions  at  a  time  ;  but  that  which  predom- 
inates in  this  whirlwind  of  passion,  is  : 

—  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  tell  me  :  you  know  that 
I  never  displease  you,  and   that  I  obtain  from  the  doctor  every 
thing  that  you  want  ? 

—  Oh,  my  dearest,  the  doctor  is  in  a  fearful  mood :  the  doc- 
tor is  suffering,  the  doctor  wishes    to   speak  to  me  alone.     This 
is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  him  thus. 

And  he  takes  the  hand  of  Rosamunda  as  though  to  mitigate 
with  its  suavity  the  asperity  of  his  pain. 

—  What  !  can  any  ill  happen  to  us  ?     Is  he  not  our  only 
father  ?     Does  he  not    love  us  as  his  children  ?     Who  knows 
what  he  wants  to  say  to  you  ? 

—  Yes it  is  true but  he  ha.s  since when 

he  told  us  we  should  love  each  other  and 

—  And  what !  Does  he  not  wish  we  should  love  each  other  ? 
What  then  saddens  you? 

—  It  is  true  ....  but  .... 

—  But  what  ? 

—  But  his  transformed  countenance,  united  to  what  he  said 


70  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

to  me  this  morning  before  six  o'clock,  makes  me  fear  for  him 
and  for  myself not  for  myself  but  for  you. 

—  And  what  can  you  fear  for  him  and  for  me  ? 

—  I  do  not  know,  llosamunda,  I  do  not  know  ;  but  I  feel  a 
cloud  lowering  over  my  heart.     I  love  you  so  much  !     Oh  !  it 
will  be  impossible  for  me  to  leave  you 

—  What !  leave  us  !  .... 

—  It  may  be  so ;  but  without  him  Hector  cannot  live,  Hector 
has  a  soul,  he  is  its  aliment,  in  him  I  find  that  with  which  to 
fill  the  immense  void  of  my  ambition  for  knowledge ;    he  has 
been  to  me  a  father,  in  his  eyes  I  read  the  mysteries  of  the 
universe ;   I  enter  into  his  soul,  rejoice   in  calling   myself  his 
disciple,  love   him  as   I   should  love  my  father  if  I  had  one, 
as  I  should  my  mother,  which  must  needs  "be  a  love  very  ten- 
der, almost  as  much  as  I  love  you  ....  and  you ;  oh,  my  Kosa- 
munda,  I  adore  you — and  taking  the  head  of  the  girl   in  his 
powerful  hands,  continued — if  I  have  to  separate  myself  from 
you  for  him,  I  shall  die,  but  thinking  of  you  ! 

He  looks  at  her  awhile  with  motionless  and  fiery  eyes ;  nei- 
ther of  them  utters  a  syllable  ;  he  is  the  electric  fluid  of  first 
love,  she,  the  personified  admiration  of  one  who  knows  not 
yet  that  terrible  passion,  unconsciously  yielding  to  its  pow- 
erful influence,  is  now  overcome.  Something  crosses  Hector's 
mind,  for  he  disappears,  the  wall  does  not  yet  conceal  hi.s 
head,  he  turns  to  look  at  his  companion  who,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  is  contemplating  him  without  daring  to  call  him  back. 
She  remains  alone,  the  left  knee  placed  on  the  ground,  the  right 
half  inclined,  the  elbow  of  her  right  arm  placed  upon  it,  her 
burning  head  in  her  hand,  the  left  resting  on  her  lip,  her  eyes 
open  and  motionless,  the  oppression  of  her  breast  says :  "  the 
love  of  her  innocence  has  awakened,  and  exists  in  the  world  of 
matter." 

A  slight  tap  on  the  left  shoulder  recalls  her  to  the  reality 
of  existence :  it  is  Schmidt,  who,  with  moved  countenance, 
says  : 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  7 1 

—  Come  to  my  arms,  my  daughter,  come  !  do  not  weep ! 
your  father,  as  you  call  me,  would  not  have  you  weep ;  you  shall 
see  how  much  I  love  you. 

-  And  Hector  1 

—  The  same  as  yourself;  you  are  my. children  of  adoption. 
Rosamunda  feels  that  the  blood  has   too  much  tinged  her 

countenance  as  she  said  "  and  Hector  ?"  and  knows  no  other 
means  of  cooling  the  ardor  she  feels  in  her  head  than  falling 
upon  the  hosoin  of  Schmidt.  He  looks  up  to  Heaven,  places 
his  hand  upon  her,  and  says  : 

—  Go,  be  calm ;  we  will  presently  see  each  other  again. 

It  is  five  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Schmidt,  who  has,  without 
the  young  people  being  aware  of  it,  witnessed  the  scene  in  the 
gymnasium,  has  not  seen  them  since,  because  there  are  revolv- 
ing within  him  a  world  of  combinations,  of  ideas,  of  opinions,  of 
consequences,  to  disentangle  which,  some  hours  are  required 
even  by  that  omnipotent  head.  They  assemble  for  dinner ;  but 
the  appearance  of  a  man  who  is  known  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
ruins  and  also  to  our  readers,  interrupts  the  meal  at  its  com- 
mencement. 

The  man  who  has  just  whistled  is  the  agent  of  police,  who 
last  night  guarded  the  Tavern-Hotel,  to  prevent  the  entrance 
of  the  sorcerer  and  the  souls  of  the  two  nobles.  This  policeman 
is,  by  exception  to  the  rule,  a  good  sort  of  a  fellow,  as  we  com- 
monly say,  and  is  in  the  confidence  of  the  German  sage,  for  he 
conveys  the  corpses  which  his  correspondents  at  Paris  and  other 
points  send  to  the  physician,  at  night  supplies  whatever  he  wants, 
and  accompanies  him  in  his  excursions,  for  all  which  he  is  well 
paid,  without  any  responsibility,  so  that  he  has  come  at  last 
quite  to  like  Schmidt.  Notwithstanding  all  this  confidence,  Ii3 
has  penetrated  only  as  far  as  to  the  laboratory  of  the  sage,  and 
except  Jose,  has  seen  no  one  there.  The  German  does  not 
wish  that  the  agent  of  police  should  have  much  familiarity  even 
with  him  ;  because  this  kind  of  gentry  exercising  so  low  and 


72  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

treacherous  an  office,  are  seldom  loyal  in  their  habits.  Their 
distinctive  character  is  dissimulation,  reserve,  pretence,  and  that 
cunning  air  which  denotes  one  who  has  always  an  arricre  pensee. 
The  host  of  the  ruins,  to  whom  the  Prefet  of  Nogent  has 
granted  this  melancholy  domain,  goes  out  to  hear  what  he  has 
no  doubt  must  be  something  of  importance,  for  the  purveyor  of 
his  dwelling  presents  himself  at  an  unaccustomed  hour. 

—  What  is  the  matter? — says  Schmidt,  seeing  he   makes 
mysterious  gestures — what  is  the  matter  ? 

Here  he  relates  what  has  passed  in  the  village  the  preced- 
ing day,  and  the  surprise  the  two  nobles  have  caused  this  morn- 
ing on  their  return  from  the  Paraclete,  and  sinking  his  voice, 
adds: 

—  I  am  assured  that  the  Baron  de  Vieux  has  accused  you 
before  the  authorities,  and  notwithstanding  M.  le  Prefet  knows 
your  profession,  it  appears  that  the  circumstances  stated  by  the 
nobleman  make  the  case  look  rather  serious,  and  perhaps  they 
will  take  judicial  proceedings,  and  make  a  visit  to  the  ruins.    If 
you  have  any  thing  to  hide,  you  will  have  time. 

— -  Thanks,  I  have  nothing  but  bones  and  crania  ;  let  them 
come,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  be  so  well  for  the  Baron  de  Vieux. 
Thank  you. 

—  I  have  fulfilled  my  commission. 

—  Many  thanks  .... 

Before  Schmidt  can  reply,  the  policeman  has  disappeared. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

ALTHOUGH  Schmidt  told  Hector  that  he  wished  to  speak  to  him 
to-night,  he  does  not  carry  out  his  intention  on  account  of  the 
information  of  the  agent  who  left  him  with  the  words  in  his 
mouth  ;  and  from  this  moment  there  begins  for  the  physician  a 
torment  which  he  only  is  capable  of  resisting. 

Certainly  one  who  considers  the  condition  of  this  world  will 
be  irresistibly  impelled  to  smile  bitterly.  To  see  a  man  like 
Schmidt,  whose  immense  knowledge,  whose  desire  to  serve  the 
world,  are  alike  unbounded,  weeping  in  an  excess  of  desperation, 
is  a  strange  spectacle,  but  for  the  misfortune  of  society  too  often 
repeated.  There  was  a  time  when  this  man  was  happy ;  he 
loved  a  wife,  he  had  a  daughter,  he  aided  the  poor  generously, 
gave  them  the  benefit  of  his  knowledge  without  any  other  re- 
turn than  the  tears  of  gratitude  which  he  drew  from  all  the  suf- 
fering classes  of  society.  The  love  of  science,  the  desire  of 
leaving  to  his  children  a  celebrated  name,  this  holy  ambition  of 
an  intelligent  man,  who  desires  that  those  who  receive  exist- 
ence from  him  should  not  pass  away  like  ephemeral  plants,  the 
taste  for  penetrating  into  the  mysteries  of  nature,  caused  him  to 
travel  for  the  space  of  three  years :  when  he  returned  full  of 
joy  at  meeting  his  wife  and  daughter,  when  he  was  going  to 
lay  at  their  feet  the  inexhaustible  treasures  of  science,  when  he 
was  going  to  interla.ce  Science,  Love,  and  Religion,  he  found  that 
a  wretch,  a  traitor,  a  felon,  a  soul  of  Satan,  had  involved  his 
honor  in  ignominy,  the  virtue  of  his  wife  in  shame,  her  soul  in 
4 


74  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

crime,  his  poor  little  daughter  in  degradation  :  for  she  when 
she  grew  up  would  think  of  what  she  had  seen  in  her  mo- 
ther, and  either  follow  in  her  unclean  steps,  or  suffer  eternal 
sorrow  for  having  been  born  of  such  a  mother.  From  that  mo- 
ment, as  we  shall  presently  see.  Schmidt  converted  all  his  vir- 
tues and  talents  into  poisonous  doctrines,  and  to  distract  him- 
self from  his  pain,  determined  to  know  whether  man  sinned 
from  weakness  or  from  wickedness,  because  his  constitution  im- 
pelled him  to  it  or  because  his  soul  was  a  daughter  of  cursing, 
and  thus  to  excuse  in  part  the  perfidy  of  his  unfaithful  wife 
and  that  of  all  men.  And  who  was  the  cause  of  the  perdition 
of  Schmidt  ?  He  who  had  been  that  of  his  wife. 

It  will  appear  strange  to  some  that  the  sage  has  so  great  for- 
bearance, which  already  seems  degenerating  into  foolishness ; 
we  might  indeed  well  say  that  if  we  knew  all  that  had  passed, 
but  this  remains  yet  to  be  discovered  to  us.  Oh  !  woman  in 
general  is  incomprehensible,  she  is  the  most  anomalous  being 
on  earth,  she  is  the  daughter  of  her  fancies  and  dies  dragging 
many  into  the  tomb.  Wilhelmina  Schmidt  died  without  her 
husband  having  ever  been  able  to  gather  even  the  first  syllable 
of  the  name  of  her  infamous  seducer.  Nevertheless  he  has 
heard  her  name  repeated  by  the  Baron  de  Vieux.  has  heard  him 
draw  her  portrait,  has  had  him  on  the  gallows  in  his  hands  .... 
but  might  he  not  be  mistaken  ? 

This  single  trait  of  rectitude  will  be  sufficient  to  captivate 
the  sympathies  of  all  who  ever  know  Schmidt.  This  night,  in 
the  darkness  of  the  vaults,  he  is  going  to  examine  certain  things 
which  will  possibly  throw  much  light  on  the  question  as  to  the 
perpetrator  of  the  adultery. 

All  arc  sleeping  but  he,  who  is  seated  beside  an  iron  box, 
which  served  him  as  a  medicine-chest,  a  safe,  and  a  secret  de- 
pository. His  countenance  bears  the  impress  of  despair  ;  he  is 
pale.  as.  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand,  which,  from  the  convulsive  trem- 
bling which  agitates  his  arm,  gives  but  a  flickering  light,  he 
touches  a  spring,  making  the  lid  which  covers  the  secret  de- 


THE  R  UIXS  OF  THE  PA  RA  CLETE.  75 

pository  fly  back.  It  is  open.  Schmidt  puts  the  light  on  the 
ground,  opens  his  eyes  wide,  as  though  afraid,  wipes  away  the 
sweat  that  is  bathing  his  forehead,  and  exclaims  : 

—  It  is   fifteen  years   that  these   papers  have  lain  here  ;   I 
had  determined  never  to  read  them,  that  I  might  not  see  my 
ignominy  ;  they  are  the  papers  I  found  in  the  dressing-case  of 
Wilhelmina  when  she  died ;  they  must  needs  enlighten  me  in 
the  darkness  in  which  I  find  myself,  and  woe  to  the  seducer  ! 
I  had  forgotten  it  all,  for  my  frenzy  in  that  moment  made  me 
mad ;  but  I  loved  my  wife,  as  the  moth  loves  the  light,  as  steel 
the  loadstone,  as  weights    the   centre.     Poor  creature    that  I 
am  !     When  I  am  going  to  put  out  my  hand  and  take  them,  I 
burn ;  when  I  attempt  to  read,  my  eyes  are  bedimmed ;  when 
courage  is  demanded  I  weep. 

The  sage  again  wipes  away  two  big  tears  that  run  down  his 
stiff,  thick  beard.  He  continues  : 

—  It  is  very  hard  to  disturb   the  ashes  of  her  I  loved  with 
frenzy.     I  have  not  done  it,  out  of  respect  to  her  memory  ;  but 
has  he  not  come  with  cynical  effrontery  to  expose  the  shame  of 
the  wife  before  the  eyes  of  the  outraged  husband  ?     May  it  not 
be  said  that  this  is  a  stroke  of  Providence  ?     And  if  she  died 
under  my  hands,  why  not   he  ?     There   is  nothing  hidden  that 
shall  not  be  revealed.     Now  I  shall  bring  to  light  that  which 
for  so  many  years  has  been  buried  in  my  heart,  in  this  box,  and 
in  the  tomb. 

He  takes  a  packet  of  papers,  draws  out  a  small  bundle  from 
among  others,  sets  the  lamp  on  the  corner  of  the  box,  opens  a 
paper  which  yet  preserves  the  perfume — he  cannot  distinguish 
in  this  moment  whether  of  his  wife  or  of  her  vile  corrupter — 
his  hands  trembling  and  his  color  changing  at  every  word  that 
he  reads,  he  at  last  discovers  unquestionable  signs  of  the  male- 
factor, though  of  his  name  the  victim  was  ignorant,  and  as 
though  astounded,  he  exclaims  : 

—  It  is  he  ! 

He  reads  two   or  three  pages,  with  his  face  puckered :  at 


76  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

the  fourth  he  hurriedly  flings  the  papers  into  the  secret  deposi- 
tory, shuts  the  lid,  locks  the  chest  with  double  key,  and  begins 
to  pace  like  a  lion  from  one  side  to  the  other,  from  the  chemical 
laboratory  to  the  dissecting  room.  One  who  looked  at  him 
through  a  crevice  would  say,  that  what  he  has  just  read  must 
have  been  the  very  instrument  of  the  crime  ;  that  it  is  the  fire 
of  infidelity  which  consumes  that  man.  He  stamps  upon  the 
floor,  and  mutters  between  his  teeth : 

—  Barbarian  that  I  am  !  the  poor  creature  was  the  victim 
of  a  malefactor,  and  afterwards  spoke  not,  died  without  a  word. 
I  was  her  murderer  ;  her  sublimity  irritated  me  ;  her  greatness 
of  soul  made  me  kill  her  and  my  innocent  daughter.  Oh  !  oh  ! 
oh  ! — and  bursting  into  a  flo.od  of  tears,  he  violently  strikes  his 

broad  forehead  with  his  hand — Oh  !  oh  ! Man  knows 

not  how  to  appreciate  an  innocent  woman.  Poor  little  one  ! 
Poor  Wilhelmina  of  my  heart, — kneeling  before  the  skeleton  of 
his  wife — martyr  of  a  malefactor,  well  you  said  to  me  as  you 
rolled  down  the  precipice,  that  you  were  innocent.  How  did 
your  eyes  affect  me  in  the  last  looks  of  death  which  you  fixed 

upon  me Oh  !  I  am  a  savage,  he  ...  infamous  !    He 

surprised  you,  completed  his  crime  without  the  intervention  of 
your  will.  You  found  yourself  in  treacherous  hands ;  you 
feared  lest  you  should  lose  the  fruit  of  that  crime,  and  chose 
rather  to  die  than  that  your  offspring  should  perish.  Oh  !  Wil- 
helmina, pardon  Schmidt :  pardon  the  assassin  of  your  body  ; 
you  shall  be  avenged  ;  you  shall  see  from  heaven. — martyr  to 
maternal  love. — you  shall  see  that  the  inhuman  Schmidt  is 
atoning,  and  will  atone  for  his  crime  even  to  .death.  Oh  !  great 
of  the  earth,  thus  do  you  dishonor  the  daughters  of  the  people  ! 
Thus  do  you  slay  them  !  Thus  do  you  make  the  poor  un- 
happy !  Wilhelmina,  it  is  fifteen  years  ;  it  is  fifteen  hills  of 
pain  since  I  lost  you ;  and  now.  now,  love  burns  in  my  breast, 
love  which  has  never  ceased  to  burn  for  you,  even  while  I  be- 
lieved you  unfaithful.  Oh !  I  imprint  a  hundred  kisses  upon 
your  skull,  press  to  my  heart  the  breast  where  beat  yours.  I 


THE  R  U1NS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETK  7  7 

love  you,  I  love  you,  more  than  on  the  night  of  our  nuptials. 
And  my  little  daughter  !  Oh  !  the  jealous  man  is  a  wild  beast 
— pardons  nothing.  She  was  the  daughter  of  my  loins,  and  in 
those  terrible  moments  of  agony,  I  even  believed  she  was  an- 
other's. Ye  great,  ye  rich,  ye  men  of  science,  who  abuse 
your  gifts,  your  gold,  your  ascendency  !  the  thunderbolts  of 

Heaven  confound  you 

There  is  a  pause  ;  it  seems  as  though  a  sudden  ray  illu- 
mines the  mind  of  Schmidt ;  he  remembers  something ;  some- 
thing comes  to  lay  low  the  rage  of  that  man.  He  draws  back, 
separating  himself  from  the  suspended  skeleton,  passes  his 
hand  across  his  brow,  opens  his  eyes  as  though  in  frenzy,  the 
muscles  of  his  face  all  contract,  giving  him  a  diabolical  ap- 
pearance ;  he  gazes  at  the  skeleton  of  Wilhelmina.  which  yet 
oscillates,  and  in  a  sepulchral  voice  says  : 

—  I  gather  the  fruit  of  that  which   I  have  sown.     I  was 
first  in  sin,  they  have  paid  me  in  my  own  coin,  just  judgment  of 
Providence.     I  did  not  remember  it  till  this  moment. 

What  has  this  extraordinary  man  remembered?  Let  him 
pass  the  rest  of  the  night  in  the  arms  of  his  tormenting  recol- 
lections. 

As  the  disk  of  the  sun  casts  off  his  crystal  mantle  in  the 
east,  the  sage  more  yellow  than  the  golden  tints  of  the  sky,  di- 
rects himself  to  the  apartment  of  the  youth.  As  soon  as  they 
are  together,  he  makes  him  sit  down,  and  begins  thus : 

—  Son,  this  is  a  solemn  day ;   I  am  going  to  confess  to  you 
what  I  know  of  you,  and  to  show  you  who  it  is  whom  I  told  you 
to  observe  so  attentively. 

The  youth  looks  at  him,  and  scrutinizes  the  countenance  of 
his  putative  father.  Unwittingly  he  draws  close  to  him,  and 
taking  his  hand 'hopes  to  learn  who  he  is.  The  physician  in- 
clines his  head  to  his  breast,  as  though  seeking  to  collect  his 
ideas  and  emotions,  then  looks  at  the  young  man,  and  con- 
tinues : 


78  THE  TWO  FATHER*. 

—  I  have  educated  you  with  the  independence   of  science. 
You  must  not  be  surprised  that  I  speak  to  you  with  the  free- 
dom of  intelligence.     Here,  where  you  see  me  of  forbidding 
presence,  with   worn-out  apparel,  with  a  wild  aspect,  with   a 
countenance  like  that  of  a  convict,  I   am  not  what  I  seem.     I 
expected  to  have  been   happy  ;   I  expected   to   have  embraced 
my  children ;   I  expected   to  have   enjoyed  the   caresses  of  my 
wife  :  but  since   the   year  '21,  I  have   retired  from  the  world, 
and  in  order  to  forget  myself,  and  to  think  no  more  of  the  wick- 
edness of  those  who  call  themselves  our  fellow-creatures.  I  plunged 
into  those  investigations  of  which  you  have   been  witness,  and 
for  nine  years  you  have  been  under  my  direction,  and  for  eight 
years,  Rosamuuda  also.     During  this  time,  have  you  had  any 
complaint  to  make  against  the  poor,  obscure  Schmidt  ?    Declare 
it,  and  I  will  make  you  reparation  ;   declare  it,  and  I  will  ask 
your  pardon,  son  of  misfortune,  and  the  more  unhappy  that  he 
who  has  stood  in  the  place  of  a  father  to  you,  is  the  being  the 
most  ill-treated  by  society  !  declare  it,  and  you  shall  see  me  at 
your  feet,  imploring  mercy. 

The  face  of  the  sage  is  so  sad,  that,  together  with  his  dis- 
course, it  deeply  affects  the  young  man  who  is  beside  him.  and 
who,  falling  on  his  shoulder,  says  to  him  through  his  tears : 

—  What  have   I  done,  father,  what   have   I   done,  that  you 
should  make   me  weep,  chiding  me  as  though   I  had   been  un- 
grateful ? 

—  I  do  not  chide  you,  son  of  my  soul,  I  do  not  chide  you,  I 
only  wish  to  let  you   know  how  you  came   into  my  hands,  that 
you  may  see  what  this  world  is,  and  that  you  may  conceive  an 
eternal  hatred  to  sin.     Sit  down. 

Here  the  youth  draws  closer  to  him,  and  taking  the  hands 
of  Schmidt  into  his  own,  gazes  absorbed  upon  the  face  of  his 
father  by  adoption,  hoping  to  learn  that  which  could  never  come 
into  his  own  mind. 

—  Let  us  return  to  the  year  '21.     I  had   but  just  returned 
from  Germany,  my  native  land,  when  I  was  obliged  to  go  to  the 


THE  RULXS  OF  THE  1'AHACLETE.  79 

mountains  of  Switzerland,  which  would  to  God  I  had  never 
visited  !  Thence  I  returned  to  Paris,  where  my  name  was  al- 
most unknown.  I  made  a  thousand  experiments  in  Phrenology, 
Physiology,  and  other  sciences,  part  of  my  works  being  crowned 
with  success.  I  travelled  in  Spain,  in  England,  where  I  formed 
an  acquaintance  with  a  great  English  physician.  Sir  W.  Murray, 
to  whom  I  owe  much  of  the  knowledge  I  have  acquired,  and 
returned  with  Jose  to  France ;  and  in  order  to  have  all  kinds 
of  models,  I  gave  up  the  lower  animals,  and  began  to  traffic  in 
.human  beings. 

—  The  young  man  looks  at  him. — 

—  Don't  be  astonished  so  soon.     A  negro  had  come  with  me 
from  Guadaloupe,  a   French  possession   in    the  lesser  Antilles ; 
this  was  my  first  subject :  he  died,  he  could   not  support  the 
rigorous  treatment  I  had  to  use  with    him  :  then  some  girls, 
whom  I  bought  of  certain  women  who  follow  this  business : 
they  also   died.     Then,  while   the  negro,  a  girl,   and   my  old 
Soujflcur  were  still  living,  I  had  the  happiness  to  possess  a  Spa- 
nish lad,  who  was  about  as  old  as  you  are  now,  but  I  lost  him, 
not  because  "he  died,  but  for  another  cause.     I  was  yet  mourn- 
ing for  him,  when  passing  one  evening  through  the  environs  of 
Paris,  I  saw  you,  Hector,  my  son.     You  looked  a  miserable  ob- 
ject at  ten  years  old.     Your  fine  Herculean  form,  your  interest- 
ing countenance,  your  head,  showed  that  your  parents  were  not  la- 
borers, but  citizens,  educated,  intelligent.     It  was  the  month  of 
April,  1828,  that  I  approached  you,  as  you  will  remember,  and 
asked  you  who  was  your  father,  and  where  your  mother  was? 

Hector,  with  a  melancholy  countenance,  makes   an  affirma- 
tive sign. 

—  You  told  me  you   had  none,  and  this  was  to  me  like  the 
finding  of  a  lost  treasure.     I   spoke   to  the  woman  with  whom 
you  lived,  and,   forgive  me,  my  son,   for  a  thousand  francs  you 
came  into  my  power,  under  pretext  that  I  would  educate  you. 
You  know  what  happened  afterwards.     But  that  you  may  see 
the  wickedness  of  this  world,  that  miserable  woman   had  been 


80  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

your  nurse,  and  according  to  what  she  insinuated  to  me,  your 
parents  were  people  of  the  city ;  but  after  the  first  three  years 
of  your  nursing  wore  paid  for,  no  one  came  to  claim  you.  and 
yott  were  an  insupportable  burden  to  her.  Ah !  well  !  up  to 
this  point  here  is  your  history :  from  your  entrance  into  my 
house  you  will  but  too  well  remember  your  education ;  and  al- 
though it  was  painful  at  first,  I  believe  you  will  not  now  re- 
gret having  passed  through  that  school.  Don't  interrupt  me. 

Notwithstanding  this  injunction,  Hector  embraces  Schmidt, 
and  his  face  is  moistened  with  the  tears  of  them  both. 

—  Sit  down,  we  are  going  to  speak  of  my  poor  Rosamunda. 
For  about  six  months  you  were  alone  with  me  ;  because  Souf- 
fleur  died,  as  you  will  remember,  from  the  consequences  of  a 
fall,  and  applying  to  one  of  those  women  who  steal  poor  little 
girls,  to  transport  them  to  France,  to  England,  and  other  places, 
where  they  serve, — oh,  horror  ! — as  food  to  most  loathsome 
fires,  I  engaged  her  to  procure  me  a  girl,  that  from  her  appearance 
and  constitution  would  have  some  homogeneity  with  your  pre- 
sent companion  ;  and  happily  for  this  poor  creature,  then  seven 
years  old,  she  told  me  she  had  got  one  of  very  tender  years,  but 
whose  aspect  promised  to  become  of  my  desired  type.  In 
a  miserable  place  she  pointed  out  Rosamunda  to  me.  and 
seeing  she  was  what  I  was  seeking, — it  makes  me  shudder 
to  think  of  what  that  Satanic  woman  must  have  thought ! — 
she  made  me  many  praises  of  her  innocence,  begged  me  to  observe 
that  she  was  much  advanced  for  her  age,  of  well-developed 
forms,  of  compliant  character,  mild,  timid  to  a  certain  degree, 
but  capable  of  learning  whatever  one  might  want  to  teach  her. 
She  added,  that  I  could  not  purchase  her  for  less  than  two 
thousand  francs,  because  she  loved  her  as  her  own  child,  and  in 
the  future  she  would  be  of  great  advantage  and  comfort  to  her. 
I  saw  what  was  the  object  of  that  monster  in  the  shape  of  a 
woman,  whose  hypocritical  wickedness  surpassed  my  previous 
belief,  and  I  gave  her  what  she  demanded.  Rosamunda  entered 
my  house  crying,  as  without  doubt  you  have  not  forgotten 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  81 

This  is  the  history  of  the  poor  girl  with  whom  you  live.  The 
beginnings  of  both  have  very  much  resemblance.  I  have  edu- 
cated you  both  alike.  You  know  what  hitherto  you  have  been 
ignorant  of.  It  is  all  with  which  it  is  in  my  power  to  make 
you  acquainted.  Never  tell  her  who  she  is  ....  Because, 
from  whence  came  you  at  first  ?  How  came  you  into  the  power  of 
these  women?  Who  were  your  parents  ?  These  are  questions  never 
put  to  this  class  of  persons  by  those  who  apply  to  them,  nor 
would  they,  although  they  could  do  so,  answer  them,  even  to  one 
who  by  money  obtains  these  unhappy  creatures,  who  are,  perhaps, 
daughters  of  mystery,  of  debility,  of  corruption,  of  the  unbridled 
lust  of  the  nobles,  the  rich,  the  libertine.  Do  not  be  amazed,  my 
son,  at  what  I  tell  you  ;  listen,  and  you  will  see  how  much  rea- 
son I  have  to  draw  aside  the  veil,  and  exhibit  to  one  that  which 
will  perhaps  make  him  detest  the  world,  and  even  him  who 
brought  him  into  it ;  and  how  reasonable  it  is  to  hide  from  the 
innocent  sight  of  the  other,  that  of  which  the  representation 
would  put  to  flight  the  innocence  of  simplicity.  If  you  had 
been  brought  up  in  another  manner,  as  is  usual  in  the  bosom  of 
families — if  you  had  not  read  in  history,  in  contemporary  news- 
papers, greater  horrors,  I  should,  perhaps,  have  to  repent  of 
having  told  you  this ;  but  you  know  how  much  of  what  men 
have  done,  and  what  you  do  not  know  I  must  needs  teach  you, 
because  in  a  short  time  hence  we  shall  separate,  perhaps  for  an 
eternity. 

Hector  is  going  to  say  something  to  Schmidt,  but  the  latter 
makes  a  sign,  which  in  him  is  imperative,  and  passing  his  lank 
fingers  through  his  thick  beard  continues : 

—  I  had  wished  not  to  have  you  separated  from  my  side  till 
you  were  twenty-five  years  old,  and  so  to  have  perfected  my 
work  ;  but  circumstances,  that  word  which  serves  as  a  puppet 
to  men  and  these  times,  compel  me  to  cut  the  period  short. 
You  are  about  to  commence  the  battle  of  life.  My  son,  this  is 
said  in  few  words,  but  it  involves  a  world  of  ideas.  Do  you 
know  to  what  you.  having  your  companion  to  protect,  are  about 
4* 


82  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

to  be  exposed  in  this  whirlwind,  which  drags  along  hills  much 
larger  and  heavier  than  your  head  ?  Men  have  two  poles  and 
an  axis — interest  and  pleasures  which  revolve  round  selfishness. 
In  order  to  reach  these  two  points,  which  are  like  those  of  the 
earth  unknown,  they  use  every  stratagem  that  can  be  invented 
by  the  most  creative,  the  most  fervid,  the  most  diabolical  imag- 
ination, and  they  succeed,  or  make  victims  in  another  way.  1 
have  told  you  how  you  came  into  my  hands,  and  you  have  seen 
the  end  I  proposed  by  your  acquisition ;  any  other  than  myself 
would  have  proposed  to  himself  double  ends,  double  poles,  until 
the  axis  would  have  discovered  itself.  Rosamunda  is  not  one 
of  those  beauties  that  recall  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  or  the  Eve  of 
Fufieli,  or  the  Diana,  or  the  Madonnas  of  Raphael,  or  the  ladies 
of  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  or  Henri  IV..  or  the  Regency,  or 
the  Court  of  the  Medicis,  or  those  of  the  Pontificates  of  Alex- 
ander VI.  and  Leo  X. ;  but  she  unites  traits  of  many  of  those 
beauties ;  she  has  much  fire  of  soul,  and  a  body  which  seems  to 
rob  the  Greek  school  of  its  forms,  the  ideal  of  its  contour,  the 
Italian  of  its  grace,  the  Spanish  of  its  force  of  coloring,  the 
Flemish  of  its  naturalness  ;  and  this  same  heterogencousness 
will  set  men  on  fire,  will  madden  them,  and  make  them  lay  for 
her  innocence  countless  snares.  And  whom  has  she  to  protect 
her  against  that  which  will  happen  to  her :  because  you  have  to 
present  yourself  with  her  in  public,  turning  to  account  the  edu- 
cation it  has  cost  me  so  much  to  bestow  upon  you  both,  whom 
has  she  to  protect  her?  Only  you,  Hector,  only  you  ;  for  what- 
ever talent  a  woman  has,  if  she  is  without  a  male  protector,  she 
is  like  the  ivy  which  trails  along  the  ground,  but  never  rises 
victorious,  unless  united  to  the  robust  oak  which  defies  the 
hurricane. 

Hector  involuntarily  presses  the  hand  of  Schmidt  to  his 
breast ;  Schmidt  looks  at  him  and  inwardly  rejoices. 

—  You  have  seen  in  our  travels  to  what  those  poor  men  and 
women  are  exposed  who  have  to  make  an  exhibition  of  beauty, 
talent,  skill,  and  whatever  else  can  flatter  the  caprices  of  those 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  83 

who  have  money.  Think  you  not  that  dancers,  singers,  actors 
and  actresses,  funambulists,  professors,  are  exposed  at  every 
step  of  their  career  ?  My  son,  all  those  who  serve  the  public  in 
these  capacities,  whatever  reserve  they  may  maintain,  however 
virtuous  they  may  be,  have  to  pass  through  combats  so  rude, 
that  singular  is  he  who  escapes  unhurt.  Think  not  it  is  for  the 
want  of  bravery,  the  greater  this  is  the  more  violent  are  the 
attacks  of  this  foaming  and  turgid  sea  called  the  wealthy,  the 
nobility,  men  of  fashion,  and  the  worst  of  all  are  the  titled  and 
aged  rich.  At  this  moment  I  could  quote  to  you  a  catalogue 
of  victims ;  but  suffice  it  so  say,  that  if  you  love  her,  as  I  disco- 
ver in  your  features  you  do,  you  Hector  must  be  a  column  that 
lifts  its  head  above  the  cities  that  you  tread,  and  she  Rosa- 
munda  the  statue  placed  upon  that  pedestal  so  firmly  based. 
Do  not  trust  to  the  testimony  of  your  conscience,  do  not  repose 
too  soundly  under  the  shadow  of  your  independence,  do  not 
make  a  parade  of  your  valor  :  I  have  seen  a  beautiful  girl  slain 
at  the  door  of  the  theatre  for  having  the  spirit  to  despise  the 
drivelling  homages  of  a  rich  old  noble ;  I  have  seen  intrigues 
formed  to  blacken  the  fame  of  a  celebrated  actress,  and  succeed 
in  making  her  pass  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  for  what  she  was 
not :  I  have  seen  a  prodigy  of  declamation  hissed  through  a  con- 
spiracy of  nobles,  who  have  found  in  her  the  defect  of  being  too 
virtuous,  and  they  will  drive  her,  in  desperation,  to  seek  some 
one  to  protect  her  even  at  the  cost  of  her  virtue  ;  I  have  seen 
one  who  merited  a  throne  of  ovations  die  of  hunger  to  preserve 
her  dignity,  and  become  the  scofi"  of  the  canaille  of  a  hospital ; 
I  have  seen  ....  but  why  multiply  examples  ?  I  will  conclude 
with  one  which  is  worth  a  hundred.  Malibran  Garcia,  that  in- 
comparable Spaniard,  for  the  Spaniards  possess  incomparable 
things,  that  lyric  tragedian,  wonder  of  our  days,  has  been  stig- 
matized as  a  drinker,  for  no  other  reason  than  her  grand 
enthusiasm,  and  the  pride  which  chose  not  to  stoop  to  the  degra- 
dation demanded  by  certain  rich  men.  So  do  not  blind  your- 
self, my  son,  with  the  dense  cloud  of  flatteries  which  they  will 


84  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

heap  upon  her  in  your  presence ;  woman  is  so  frail,  praise  and 
adulation  pervert  the  most  virtuous ;  in  the  midst  of  the  ova- 
tions of  a  people  remember  that  that  adulation,  if  legitimate, 
is  smoke,  which  the  slightest  contrary  wind  will  dissipate ;  if,  as 
very  often  happens,  it  is  bought  by  those  who  plot  your  per- 
dition, spreading  a  bed  of  flowers  in  the  mouth  of  a  volcano, 
the  thorny  branches  of  which  may  serve  as  fuel  to  burn  you,  it 
is  a  flame  that  announces  the  devouring  fire  which  is  about  to 
be  the  end  of  the  victim's  career.  If  you  wish  to  escape  dangers 
so  great,  never  separate  yourself  from  her  even  in  thought :  In 
union  is  strength.  Love  each  other  with  eternal  love,  never 
abandon  each  other  whatever  may  be  your  position,  be  one  the 
oak  of  the  other,  and  she  the  vesture  of  luxuriant  vegetation 
around  him  ;  remember  your  poor  father  of  adoption,  and  fol- 
low my  counsels.  A  day  will  come,  my  son,  in  which  you  will 
see  that  the  obscure  Schmidt  did  not  deceive  you,  a  day  will 
come,  perhaps,  in  which  you  will  know  who  it  was  that  gave  you 
existence,  and  you  will  perhaps  prefer  giving  to  me  the  tender 
name  of  father  to  naming  your  legitimate  one.  The  same  may 
happen  to  her.  Who  knows  whether  those  who  gave  you  being 
live  in  great  palaces?  Your  persons  bespeak  a  birth  different 
from  that  which  the  situation  in  which  I  found  you  would  indi- 
cate. Well !  the  moment  has  not  yet  arrived  for  bidding 
you  adieu ;  go  therefore,  Hector,  go  and  enjoy  the  innocent 
tranquillity  of  these  ruins,  since  you  will  perhaps  in  a  short 
time  find  yourself  tossed  in  the  whirlwind  of  the  cities.  And 
return  at  the  close  of  the  evening,  for  I  have  to  talk  to  you  of 
other  subjects. 

Assuredly  Schmidt  must  have  been  deeply  affected,  for  in- 
stead of  the  young  man  leaving  him,  it  is  he  who  hurriedly 
leaves  the  place  where  they  have  been.  Hector's  moistened 
eyes  follow  him  till  he  is  out  of  sight,  and  when  the  last  sound 
of  his  retreating  footsteps  has  fallen  on  his  ears.  Hector  goes 
out  in  search  of  Rosamunda.  After  a  few  steps  he  finds  her; 
his  countenance  is  changed,  she  asks  him  a  hundred  questions, 
and  he  replies  : 


THE  K U1NS  OF  THE  PARA CLETE.  §5 

—  Fear  not,  fear  not,  we  shall  never  be  separated.     My  fears 
were  unfounded.     He  has  just  told  me  that  we  are  going  to 
leave  the  Paraclete  together,  and  that  I  shall  have  to  take  care 
of  you to  take  care  of  you,  Rosamunda. 

—  Indeed  ?     And  the  doctor,  where  does  he  remain  ? 

—  I  do  not  know :  he  says  Jose  will  see  us  in  Paris. 

—  So  we  shall  not  be  separated  ? 

—  No,  sweet  Rosamunda,  no. 

They  clasp  each  other,  as  wishing  to  symbolize  in  acts  the 
ivy  and  the  oak,  as  foreseeing  the  hurricane,  as  preparing  for 
the  struggle  to  which  the  world  challenges  them.  These  two 
young  people  have  acquired,  besides  knowledge,  the  character 
which  the  sage  has  wished  by  their  education  to  give  them,  so 
that  in  their  great  emotions,  in  their  extreme  agitations  of  spi- 
rit, they  are  silent,  as  the  heavens,  when  they  veil  themselves 
ere  rushing  down  upon  the  field,  remain  for  some  minutes  in 
atmospheric  inaction.  Locked  in  each  other's  arms  they  reflect 
much  in  an  instant,  and  then  as  if  by  consent  burst  forth : 

—  Wilt  thou  ever  love  me  ? 
And  reply : 

—  Until  death. 

They  look  steadily  upon  each  other,  and  with  melancholy 
smile  give  each  other  a  kiss.  Even  if  Hector  desired  to  say 
something  to  Rosamunda  of  that  which  he  has  just  heard  from 
the  lips  of  Schmidt,  her  having  been  put  under  his  care  is  suf- 
ficient to  make  him  preserve  the  most  profound  silence.  How 
could  he  have  the  heart  to  sadden,  with  things  so  horrible,  one 
who  is  overflowing  with  innocent  joys  ? 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  Hector  is  in  the  chamber  of 
the  country  girl,  victim  of  the  Baron  de  Vieux.  Interesting 
above  all  things  must  be  the  conversation  by  which  a  rustic 
village  girl  can  keep  him  hanging  on  her  lips.  Let  us  approach 
and  listen.  The  sick  one,  who  finds  herself,  thanks  to  the 
fathomless  scientific  profundity  of  the  German,  much  relieved, 
continues,  and  says  to  the  young  man: 


86  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  Three  years  of  the  same  misery,  my  head  sometimes  set 
me  on  fire,  at  others  a  kind  of  giddiness  took  away  my  reason ; 
on  some  days  I  seemed  to  be  an  angel,  I  was  so  light-hearted, 
joyful,  disposed  to  enjoy  every  thing ;  the  fields  appeared  to  me 
a  paradise,  the  people  amiability  itself,  while  on  others  I  could 
see  no  one ;  I  hated  mankind,  the  sky  appeared  to  me   black, 
the  earth  as  sad  as  a  grave-yard,  I  longed   to  die,  but   to  die 
tearing  myself  to  pieces.     At  last,  as  I  told  you,  they  at  home 
took  me  to  be  possessed,  my  poor  parents  wept,  all  the  neigh- 
bors ran  away  from  me,  M.  le  Cure  said  prayers  over  me,  I  my- 
self believed  that  the  devil  had  got  me  into  his  power,  and  at 
last  I  fled  from  home,  and  went  wandering  about  the  fields  as 
though  mad  till  the  doctor  took   me  under  his  protection,  and 
four  days  ago  when  he  came   in  with   the  doctor,  I  again  be- 
lieved that  his  presence  was  the  cause  of  my  torments,  his  me- 
mory a  hell  to  my  soul,  his  eyes  two  fire-brands  that  scorched 
my  pupils. 

—  But  tell  me,  did  this  nobleman  never  magnetize  you  ? 

—  What  is  it  to  magnetize  ? 

—  It  is  an  operation  performed  by  the  look  and  with  the 
hands  until  it  makes  a  person  sleep. 

—  No,  sir ;  but  one  time,  as  you  say  it  is  necessary  I  should 
tell  you  all  that  passed,  and  being  now  almost  well.  I  will  re- 
late to  you  what  happened  to  me.     Three  years  ago,  or  a  little 
less,  the  Baron  de  Vieux  came  to  the  country-seat  he  has  on 
the  banks  of  the  Seine,  about  twelve  leagues  from  Paris,  and 
seven  from  this  place,  to  pass  the  summer.     My  Lady,  who  is 
very  beautiful,  did  not  stay  more  than  a  few  days  because  soli- 
tude annoyed  her,  and  she  returned  to  Paris  or  some  other  es- 
tate, I  don't  know  exactly  which,  and  my  Lord,  who  had  seen 
me  many  times,  remained,  alleging  as  he  said  to  the  family  be- 
fore my  Lady,  that  he  wished  to  push  forward  the  repairs  of 
the  house,  because  it  had  been  the  favorite  seat  of  his  deceased 
aunt,  Madame  Donnedieu,  who  had  left  it  to  him  on  her  death. 
Oh  !  from  that  moment  dates  my  uuhappiuess.    My  father,  who 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  87 

is  an  honest  farmer,  sent  me  to  the  castle  at  the  request  of 
the  Baron,  who  said  he  could  not  get  on  with  the  old  ser- 
vants ;  and  after  some  days,  in  which  abusing  the  confidence  of 
a  country  girl,  he  had  blinded  my  eyes,  he  told  me  he  wanted 
to  speak  to  me,  and  in  short  he  possessed  himself  of  my  heart, 
and  with  jests  and  endearments  made  me  in  the  silence  of  night 
breathe  a  liquor  from  a  bottle,  which  he  said  would  produce 
wonders  in  me,  and  he  went  through  the  operation  himself  first 
to  give  me  confidence ;  I  drew  in  a  breath,  and  for  a  while  lost 
my  senses,  and  afterwards  remained  in  a  state  of  delight  so  ex- 
traordinary, that  it  occasioned  my  ruin.  This  was  repeated  a 
great  many  times  in  the  space  of  four  months,  during  all  of 
which  I  continued  in  a  nervous  excitation  which  drove  me  to 
desperation.  At  the  end  of  this  time  he  returned  to  Paris,  as- 
suring me  that  he  would  send  for  me  to  be  ladies'  maid  to  the 
Baroness.  I  had  not  seen  him  again  till  now,  although  the 
effect  of  those  four  months  increased,  and  all  took  me  for  mad, 
for  I  condemned  myself  to  a  silence,  which  is  worse  than  death ; 
for  who  would  have  believed  that  the  poor  daughter  of  my 
Lord's  tenant  loved  him,  and  was,  as  she  pretended,  loved  by  him 
in  return  ?  At  best  she  would  have  passed  for  a  vile  creature, 
and  he  never  made  me  believe  myself  that. 

Here  the  poor  girl  cannot  help  weeping.  Hector  passes  his 
hand  over  his  forehead,  foaming  with  the  indignation  excited  in 
him  by  the  narration  of  the  .nobleman's  wickedness,  then,  as 
though  coming  out  of  a  distressing  dream,  he  comforts  the  sor- 
rowing girl,  and  says  to  her : 

—  And  you  have   told   the   doctor  this    incident   in   your 
malady  ? 

—  No,  sir. 

—  Then  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  tell  him  immedi- 
ately, for  this  absorption  must  have  been  of  sulphuric  ether,  and 
perhaps  with  so  much  repetition  it  has  injured  your  cerebral 
system.     Oh  !  what  monsters  are  these  nobles  !     I  will  go  ai,d 
tell  him  to  come  and  speak  with  you. 


88  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  No,  sir,  no,  it  is  better  you  should  tell  him.     I  could  not 
repeat  what  I  have  just  related  to  you. 

—  Then  I  will  go  and  tell  him  myself,  that  he  may  employ 
some  remedy  for  the  ravages  of  this  wicked  invention  of  an  in- 
famous age.     And  such  are  the  nobles  !     Well  does  the  doctor 
say  they  are  monsters !     I  will  go  now. 

Hector  goes  in  search  of  Schmidt.  The  latter  meets  him 
and  says : 

—  My  son,  I  was  going  to  look  for  you,  for  it  is  necessary  I 
should  speak  with  you ;  but  what  is  the  matter  ? 

Hector  relates  to  his  adopted  father  what  he  has  just  heard, 
to  which  the  sage  replies : 

—  I  knew  it  before  she  told  you  of  it,  I  have  succeeded  in 
lessening  the  ravages  made  by  the  sulphuric  ether  in  her  brains ; 
but  she  cannot  live  many  years,  the  principal  vessels  have  been 
injured.     Here  you  see  what  the  rich  and  the  nobles  are,  they 
know  no  other  world  than  their  appetites ;  pleasure  and  interest 
revolve  on   the  axis  of  their  selfishness.     It  is  concerning  this 
monster  that  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you.     Let  us  retire  into 
the  most  remote   apartment,  for,  my  son,  what  I  have  to  reveal 
to  you  this  night  four  only  know ;  this  wretch,  his  victim,  my- 
self, God ;  this  day  you  also  will  know  it. 

The  place  chosen  for  the  secret  conference  is  the  cavern 
where  stands  the  gallows  :  they  go  thither  with  minds  strangely 
preoccupied.  • 

Before  they  arrive  let  us  look  at  another.  Woman  is  more 
perspicacious  than  man ;  woman,  by  so  much  as  her  constitution 
is  more  delicate  than  that  of  her  companion,  has  more  sensibility 
than  he ;  the  imagination  of  woman  is  more  fervid  than  that  of 
man  in  proportion  as  reason  in  her  works  through  noble,  disin- 
terested, grand  instincts,  the  selfishness  of  interest  entering  into 
none  of  her  actions  :  her  egotism  is  that  of  passion.  Rosamunda 
is  not  accustomed  to  secrecy,  this  is  the  first  time  that  Schmidt 
and  Hector  have  used  it  towards  her.  Her  origin  is  wrapped 
in  mystery,  the  preludes  of  her  departure  from  the  Paraclete 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  gg 

also,  Schmidt  desires  that  her  companion  should  know  secrets 
which  doubtless  touch  her  very  nearly,  her  sole  support  is  Hec- 
tor ;  he  will  not  tell  her  more  :  this  is  a  want  of  confidence  which 
deeply  wounds  her  heart ;  now  he  is  going  to  know  what  never 
will  come  to  her  ears.  This  cannot  be.  Alone  in  her  apart- 
ment she  discourses  in  this  or  a  similar  manner,  makes  a  thou- 
sand guesses,  then  unmakes  them,  now  it  seems  to  her  she  has 
hit  upon  it,  now  she  is  bewildered  in  conjectures,  she  discerns 
a  horizon,  now  it  recedes,  confounding  itself  in  space  as  she  runs 
towards  it. 

Rosamunda  has  the  body  of  a  woman,  and  the  soul  of  a 
man.  The  one  makes  her  astute,  the  other  audacious.  She 
rises  from  the  spot  where  she  is  seated  and  begins  to  walk  in 
the  labyrinth  of  the  vaults,  whose  obscurity  bears  a  resemblance 
to  the  chaos  within  her  head. 

At  the  same  time  Schmidt  and  Hector  arrive  at  the  scene 
of  the  mysterious  agonies.  Solemn  is  the  sight,  imposing  the  ap- 
paratus ;  seriousness  is  impressed  on  the  countenance  of  the 
German,  anxiety  on  that  of  the  youth.  They  sit  down  on  a 
bench :  artificial  light  is  not  needed,  for  from  above,  emitted  by 
the  moon,  come  silver  rays  which  illumine  this  roofless  inclo- 
sure  with  an  opaque  light,  casting  upon  the  ground  fantastic 
and  strange  appearances.  The  ropes  swing  to  and  fro  in  the 
wind,  their  shadows  representing  sometimes  serpents,  and  some- 
times convulsive  movements  of1  members  of  the  human  body. 
The  physician  is  thinking,  his  forehead  resting  on  his  hand  and 
his  elbow  on  his  knee  ;  the  youth  has  never  been  afraid,  but  on 
this  occasion  he  feels  a  disagreeable  sensation  in  his  heart. 
They  hear  a  strange  sound,  both  notice  it,  it  must  have  been  a 
branch  agitated  by  the  breeze,  or  a  ferret  that  has  come  to  hunt 
in  the  ruins,  or  the  raven  that  was  retiring  ;  whatever  it  was,  all 
now  certainly  remains  in  silence  till  this  is  broken  by  the  aged 
man,  who.  placing  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  youth,  says  : 

—  Son,  imagine  that  a  youth  of  ardent  passions,  of  vast 
imagination,  with  heart  of  fire,  has  succeeded  in  uniting  his  ex- 


90  THE  TWO  FATllEKS. 

istciice  to  a  womau  enchanting,  virtuous,  sweet  as  Rosamunda ; 
think  that  they  have  a  daughter,  fruit  of  their  loves,  of  that  un- 
whispered  bond,  of  that  deep  mystery  which  wise  nature  be- 
queathes  to  perfect  and  virtuous  love  ;  take  it  that  this  young 
man  adores  his  wife,  is  enchanted  with  his  little  daughter ;  sup- 
pose that  he  has  a  journey  to  make,  think  of  the  sorrow  he  will 
feel  at  leaving  pledges  so  beloved  ;  conceive  that  he  passes  some 
years  away  from  home ;  picture  him  to  yourself  as  he  returns 
like  a  blindly  enamored  lover,  like  a  tenderly  fond  father, 
seeking  to  surprise  his  idolized  wife,  and  smother  with  kisses  the 
angelic  little  face  of  his  daughter  sleeping  at  the  bedside  of  her 
mother,  protected  only  by  God.  her  guardian  angel,  and  her  to 
whom  she  owes  her  being.  This  man  longs  to  taste  the  plea- 
sures of  a  surprise,  wishes  to  gaze  unseen  upon  the  throbbing 
bosom  of  his  beloved,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  delight  will  go  on 
tiptoe  so  as  not  to  wake  his  little  daughter,  and  thus  stifling  his 
joy.  will  not  let  a  breath  escape  but  by  fitful  and  delicious 
gasps.  This  man  enters  his  house  late  at  night  by  a  way  known 
to  him  because  it  is  his  house  ;  this  man  arrives  at  the  bed- 
chamber of  his  wife  and  daughter :  this  man  hears  the  deep 
breathing  of  their  sleep ;  this  man  fears  to  startle  them  by  sud- 
denly opening  the  door ;  this  man,  by  force  of  repressing  the 
pleasure  in  which  his  soul  is  rejoicing,  feels  his  temples  throb- 
bing more  quickly,  his  breast  heaving,  his  ears  filled  with  u 
rumbling  noise ;  this  man  loves,  he  is  blind  with  love ;  this 
man  trembles  at  the  thought  of  being  able  to  impress  a  kiss 
upon  her  innocent  forehead  ;  this  man  can  resist  no  longer  the 
emotion  which  agitates  him  ;  this  man  hears  the  little  cry  of  his 
daughter  who  has  turned  in  her  cradle  ;  this  man  believe  s  lie 
hears  his  wife  calling  him  in  her  dreams ;  this  man  opens  the 
door  ;  this  man  takes  out  a  lantern ;  this  man  draws  his  hand 
over  the  conjugal  bed,  pronouncing  with  phrenetic  love  the  name 
which  during  the  torments  of  absence,  in  the  deliriums  of  his 
heated  imagination  he  has  worshipped  :  this  man  fancies  he  re- 
spires the  soft  breath  of  his  wife ;  this  man  looks,  believing  she 


THE  JtWX  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  91 

is  on  the  other  side  :  this  rnan  had  set  the  lantern  on  the  floor 
jealous  that  its  rays  should  witness  that  embrace,  that  kiss ;  this 

man  does  not  find  his  wife His  temples  are  burning,  his 

heart  is  leaping  from  his  breast,  his  ears  tingle  with  a  sound 
like  the  ticking  of  a  clock,  his  hands  tremble,  his  sight  is  be- 
dimmed,  the  bile  tints  his  countenance  with  the  hue  of  death. 
Through  his  mind  passes  a  river  of  fire  which  burns  his  brains. 
He  seeks  the  lantern,  casts  its  light  around  the  chamber, 
sees  his  unhappy  little  daughter,  looks  at  her  with  horror,  fol- 
lows a  staircase,  barefooted  ascends  its  steps,  goes  along  a  corri- 
dor, thence  to  a  greenhouse ;  so  convulsive  is  the  movement  of 
his  nerves  that  the  light  flickers  when  he  tries  to  fix  it  upon  an 
object  he  wishes  to  illuminate ;  he  perceives  a  white  figure,  it  is 
his  wife,  she  is  asleep.  He  puts  this  question  to  himself,  Here  ? 
in  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  this  disorder,  the  window  open, 
her  handkerchief  yet  wet  with  tears  on  the  arm  of  the  chair? 

The  fire  of  jealousy  burns  in  his  soul,  the  smoke  of  its 

burning  beclouds  his  reason,  his  outraged  honor  seeks  vengeance, 
he  utters  a  cry  of  desperation,  rushes  towards  her  ;  she  awakes, 
pushes  aside  her  luxuriant  ringlets,  looks  at  him  with  horror, 
and  exclaims  as  though  dreaming,  "  Pardon,  pardon."  This  man 
looks  for  weapons  to  make  an  end  of  her  ;  this  man  has  none  but 
a  heart  full  of  fire ;  this  man  puts  his  hands  upon  the  throat  of 
that  unhappy  one  to  strangle  her,  to  draw  from  her  the  secret, 
to  make  her  confess  a  hated  imaginary  name ;  but  not  being 
able  to  obtain  full  justice  that  way,  speaks  not,  turns  aside, 
and  hastens  away.  The  following  day  he  blinds  the  servants, 
those  venal  beings,  with  gold,  they  reveal  to  him  things  true  and 
things  false,  relate  to  him  mysterious  tales,  drive  him  mad.  He 
believes  them  in  the  fit  of  insanity  which  consumes  him  ;  he  reflects 
not ;  he  asks  his  wife  nothing.  A  day  has  passed,  he  takes  a 
carriage,  it  is  the  only  means  he  has  conceived  of;  he  speaks 
not,  he  leaves  the  country,  ascends  the  Alps,  goes  alone  with  his 
infamous  wife  and  little  daughter,  arrives  at  the  piled-up  heights 
of  eternal  snow ;  the  carriage  is  his,  he  is  his  own  coachman, 


92  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

he  is  in  a  solitary  spot :  this  is  the  place  :  there  is  a  precipice 
at  his  feet,  there  are  crystal  masses  overhead,  the  sky  is  murky, 
he  turns  to  his  wife,  puts  to  her  this  question :  "  Who  disho- 
nored my  name?  answer,  or  die,  precipitated  into  this  abyss 
which  rolls  down  before  your  eyes,  devoured  by  the  bloodthirsty 
wolf  and  the  sinewy  bear."  The  wife  makes  no  answer.  The 
outraged  man  reiterates  his  question ;  profound  silence  ;  the 
very  silence  infuriates  him,  the  man  forgets  his  daughter,  the 
man  is  phrenetic,  the  man  drives  the  carriage  to  the  brink  of 
the  abyss,  the  man,  become  a  demon  of  rage,  cries :  "  Do  you 
tell  his  name?"  The  woman  replies  :  "  I  do  not  know  it."  The 
man  cracks  his  whip,  and  sees  horses,  carriage,  wife  and  daugh- 
ter roll  over  those  eternal  rocks,  while  a  scream  from  the  little 
daughter,  and  a  cry  "  I  am  innocent"  from  the  wife,  ascends  and 
falls  upon  his  ears. — A  noise  is  heard —  The  man  remains 
absorbed  like  the  image  of  despair  on  the  borders  of  eternity. 
....  I  am  he  ! 

—  Horrible  !  Doctor,  horrible  ! 

—  And  who  wrought  these  horrors  ?    I  ?     I  ?  .  .  .   No.  Hec- 
tor, no  !     The  Baron  de   Vieux,  who   dishonored  my  wife,  sur- 
prising her  asleep  in  the  gallery  of  my  house,  during  one  of  my 
scientific  journies.     This  day  I  have  read  the  secret ;  this  pa- 
per tells  it ;  this  paper,  which  the  unhappy  one  wrote  the  morn- 
ing following  my  arrival,   one  week  before  she  found  herself 
with  her  innocent  little  daughter,  closely  clasped  in  her  bosom, 
rolled  down  a  precipice  by  my  blind  fury.     Tell  me,  Hector, 
tell  me,  if  this  woman  had  been  Rosamunda,  what  would  you 
do  ?  What  will  you  do  now  ?     I  never  saw  him  till  five  days 
ago  ;  even  then  I  did  not  know  him  ;  I  did  not  know  who  he 
was :  his  mouth,  and  some  papers  which  I  had  always  respected, 
have  made   it  manifest  to  me.     Hector,  Schmidt  desires  ven- 
geance in  the  same  kind  upon  that  wretch.     Schmidt  cannot — 
Schmidt  is  old.     Hector,  his  adopted  son,  ought  to  take  up  this 
cause  as  his  own.     Will  you  know  him  wherever  you  may  see 
him? 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  93 

—  Yes,  my  beloved  and  unhappy  friend. 

An  embrace  of  Schmidt  closes  that  scene. 

Along  the  crest  of  the  ruined  wall,  is  creeping  a  figure  which 
has  heard  the  whole  of  this  discourse,  and  which  now  disappears, 
like  the  shadow  killed  by  the  light. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

How  few  of  those  who  are  at  the  head  of  the  nations  have  de- 
served a  grateful  remembrance  from  the  governed  or  their  de- 
scendants !  Consult  history.  Like  Washington,  perhaps  not 
a  dozen  can  be  found.  How  few  mighty  of  the  earth  have  left 
their  names  consigned  to  posterity  in  grateful  pages  !  Examine 
the  world's  annals.  And  yet  why  do  the  masses  profess  for 
these  beings  called  noble  and  powerful,  a  traditional  respect  1 
Why,  in  spite  of  all  their  unclean  acts,  are  the  ignorant,  and 
people  who  are  not  ignorant,  dazzled  ?  Why  ?  Because  they 
have  not  permitted  men  of  talent  to  write  with  freedom  ;  be- 
cause they  have  hindered  the  free  exercise  of  the  soul  of  man  ; 
some  with  political  tyrannies,  others  with  religious  despot- 
ism ;  the  former  buying  talent  to  celebrate  them,  the  latter  perse- 
cuting the  few  works  which,  proceeding  perhaps  from  foreign 
presses,  seek  to  destroy  the  delusions  of  the  deluded.  But  the 
march  of  Mankind  is  like  that  of  Time,  which  ever  goes  onward 
augmentingly,  and  the  days  of  oppression,  of  religious  and  poli- 
tical fanaticism,  and  of  blood,  must  give  place  to  the  morning 
light  of  truth.  The  Reformation  in  Germany,  the  French  Re- 
volution of  1793,  had  of  necessity  to  be,  and  they  were,  those 
clouds  which  at  early  dawn  are  fearful  phantasms,  which  to 
shine  with  a  safe  light,  have  to  pass  through  rivers  of  murky  red, 
which  we  will  call  of  blood ;  but  in  the  end  they  opened  gra- 
dually, and  the  writings  of  the  sons  of  both  colossal  clouds  have 
in  part  dissipated  the  darkness,  have  caused  the  light  to  shine, 
have  disinterred  history,  have  accused  the  tyrants,  have  made 
manifest  what  were  the  great,  what  were  the  priests,  what 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARA CLETE.  95 

were  the  tribunals  which  they  established,  what  objects 
they  had,  what  horrors  they  perpetrated  in  the  obscurity 
of  dungeons,  how  many  victims  they  immolated,  not  to  re- 
ligion, of  whose  holy  name  they  made  a  handle,  not  to  the  dig- 
nity with  which  they  surrounded  themselves,  but  to  their  appe- 
tites, to  their  caprices,  to  their  Satanic  ambitions.  It  is  useless 
to  kick  against  the  pricks.  You  may  blind  yet  for  a  short  time', 
but  not  very  long  will  be  the  space  conceded  you  by  the  Dig- 
nity of  Man,  which  is  already  tired  of  seeing  itself  so  humili- 
ated, by  men  who  have  no  right  to  exalt  themselves  over  it  but 
that  of  caprice,  that  of  ignorance,  that  of  baseness.  The  sole 
prerogatives  which  are  destined  to  remain  upon  the  earth,  are 
those  bequeathed  to  man  by  his  only  Legislator,  in  the  Gospel, 
virtue,  honor,  wisdom,  and  constancy  in  acting  according  to  His 
Divine  word.  But  so  much  are  the  people  irritated,  that,  partly 
goaded  by  their  wrongs,  partly  steeled  by  demagogues,  partly 
impelled  by  the  ignorance  in  which  they  have  been  brought  up, 
partly  maddened  by  the  future  which  threatens  them,  they  listen 
not  to  those  who  counsel  them  patience,  and  rush  with  that  fero- 
cious impetus  which  characterizes  demoralized  masses,  into 
crime,  robbery,  assassination,  profanation,  horrors,  as  we  are 
shown  at  every  step  by  cotemporaneous  history  ;  and  although 
the  governors  think  to  stifle  this  hatred  to  the  nobles  by  spill- 
ing torrents  of  the  people's  blood,  they  succeed  only  in  concen- 
trating the  fire,  and  making  it  more  voracious  for  the  day  in 
which  an  explosion  shall  take  place.  This  is  not  the  way  to 
draw  men.  Rigor  makes  hypocrites,  traitors,  and  executioners. 
Begin  by  chastising  the  infinite  wickedness  of  the  great  at  their 
own  and  at  others'  firesides,  destroying  now  the  virtue,  now  the 
honor,  now  the  life,  now  the  interests  of  others.  This  lesson, 
given  with  thorough  energy,  will  let  the  people  see  that  justice 
is  fulfilling  its  mission,  and  they  will  bless  the  hand  that  ad- 
ministers it ;  they  will  find  security  at  their  hearths,  rejoice  in 
individual  liberty,  and  they  will  fear  no  longer  lest  the  noble 
should  enter  their  workshops  under  pretence  of  some  chattel, 


96  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

and  rob  them  of  wife  or  daughter,  either  corrupting  her  or  mak- 
ing her  unhappy.  All  who  know  the  kind  of  life  generally  led 
by  those  who  call  themselves  the  high  aristocracy,  must  needs 
confess,  that  to  their  harems  tribute  is  paid  by  the  industrious 
of  every  class,  the  gardener,  the  chambermaid,  the  shoemaker, 
the  dressmaker,  the  laundress,  every  unhappy  being  who  has  to 
live  by  their  luxury,  by  their  money,  must  lay  tears,  shame,  or 
death,  on  the  altars  of  their  omnipotent  impunity.  It  is  not  the 
nobility  alone,  the  immoral  rich  act  as  badly,  or  worse.  It  is 
true  that  some  of  the  wealthy  do  not  belong  to  this  degraded 
and  infamous  race.  We  know  men  noble  in  soul,  and  rich  in 
heart,  who,  instead  of  calling  down  maledictions  on  their  heads 
as  the  others  do  from  all  who  know  them,  crown  their  heads 
with  immortal  laurels,  not  woven  by  adulation,  but  the  silence 
of  the  grateful,  the  love  of  those  whom  they  have  protected,  the 
cry  of  the  children  who  implore  Heaven  to  rain  with  bounteous 
hands  upon  the  souls  of  the  noble  in  spirit  and  the  rich  in 
heart,  felicity,  abundance,  well-being,  glory,  holy  joys.  What 
consolation  must  those  few  privileged  beings  obtain  before  the 
tribunal  of  Divine  Justice  !  Hundreds  and  thousands  of  tongues 
will  proclaim  upon  the  earth  when  as  yet  their  souls  have  not 
arrived  at  the  footstool  of  God,  "  I  was  hungr}*,  and  ye  gave 
me  to  eat ;  I  was  thirsty,  and  ye  gave  me  to  drink  ;  naked,  and 
ye  clothed  me."  "  That  which  ye  have  done  to  the  least  of 
these  my  little  ones,  ye  have  done  it  unto  me ;"  and  God,  hear- 
ing this  chorus  of  grateful  voices  around  his  throne,  will  say  to 
the  now  arriving  soul,  ';  Reign  with  me ;  worthy  art  thou  to 
share  my  glory,  since  on  earth  thou  didst  imitate  my  Provi- 
dence." How  delightful  would  it  be  to  be  able  to  say  of  all 

what  we   say  of  one ! But,  unhappily,  many  are 

rich,  and  few  in  heart;  many  are  noble,  and  rare  the  noble  in 
soul.  Why,  Justice  of  the  earth,  dost  thou  not  pass  the  level 
over  the  heads  of  men  ?  Why  dost  thou  not  weigh  with  an 
equal  balance,  since  thou  dost  represent  thyself  with  one  in  thy 
hand  ?  Doth  the  poor  man  commit  a  fault  ?  thy  inexorable 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  97 

sword  falleth  upon  him  ?  Doth  the  great,  the  rich,  the  flatterer, 
the  taker  of  bribes  sin  ?  then  come  in  considerations  of  name, 
of  circumstances,  of  family,  of  generations  passed,  present,  and 
future,  of  influence,  of  ascendency.  Wretches  !  Imitate  the 
justice  of  God,  which  makes  no  distinction  of  persons.  Make 
your  judgments,  which  ought  to  be  a  counterpart  of  his,  conform 
to  the  right,  to  the  good,  to  the  grand.  Will  you  not  do  so  ? 
Then  expect  that  the  people,  if  they  cannot  rise  en  masse,  be- 
cause you  compress  them  with  your  bayonets,  will  rise  in  detail, 
and  take  vengeance  in  their  own  way.  Do  you  not  keep  them 
sunk  in  ignorance  1  Then  expect  the  fruits  of  your  school, 
which  are  bitter  and  cruel.  Do  you  not  overwhelm  the  sage  ? 
Then  know  that  he,  exasperated,  is  rich  in  resources  to  satisfy 
what  is  due  to  his  rank  as  a  Rational  Being. 

Schmidt  has  passed  two  days  in  revealing  what  his  soul  has 
been  suffering  these  fifteen  years,  through  the  baseness  of  the 
nobles  of  the  world  ;  and  now  to  enroot  in  the  hearts  of  his  dis- 
ciples an  eternal  hatred  to  the  whole  class,  he  induces  Jose  to 
relate  to  them  in  his  presence,  the  causes  which  led  to  his  exe- 
cution. It  is  night,  the  most  appropriate  time  for  producing 
portentous  results  upon  the  imagination.  The  four  are  assem- 
bled, together  with  the  poor,  dishonored  country  girl,  in  the 
dissecting-saloon.  Schmidt  makes  the  saddened  Hector  and 
Kosamunda  sit  down  close  beside  him,  the  country  girl  lies  on 
one  side,  stretched  upon  some  furs,  and  Jose  Feliii  takes  his 
place  opposite  the  doctor.  After  they  are  thus  arranged,  the 
German  says  to  Felifi  : 

—  Jose,  my  son,  I  have   many  times  desired  to  know  the 
cause  of  your  sentence  to  death  ;  and  if  I  have  had  the  felicity 
of  being  able  to  do  you  a  benefit,  I  hope  you  will  this  night  re- 
count it  to  us  ;  for  we  have  all,  some  more,  some  less,  suffered 
great  wrongs  on  the  part  of  society. 

—  Doctor,  I  will  do  it  with  much  pleasure ;  but  it  seems  to 
me  better  to  read  that  which  I  have  by  me  in  writing  ;  because 
in  such  a  web  of  misfortunes,  some  interesting  incidents  might, 


98  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

perhaps,  in  the  heat  of  narration  escape  me.     I  will  go  and 
fetch  the  book. 

—  Yes,  my  son,  so  much  the  better.     Does  it  not  seem  to 
you  that  what  he  is  going  to   read  will  be  at  once  useful  and 
interesting  1 

—  Assuredly,  Doctor. 

—  Yes,  father. 

Schmidt  passes  his  hand  over  the  head  of  Rosamunda,  who 
has  just  given  him  the  glorious  title  of  Father. 

—  And  you,  how  do  you  feel  ? 

—  Much  better.  Doctor,  if  it  were  not  for  the  continual  faint- 
ings  which  trouble  me,  I  should  be  entirely  recovered. 

—  There  is  no  remedy  for  this  nervous  relaxation  but  time. 
and  a  nutritious  vegetable  diet. 

Here  Jose  interrupts  them,  carrying  in  one  hand  a  thick 
volume,  and  in  the  other  a  four-wicked  lamp,  and  says  : 

—  I  hope  that  if  my  narrative  fatigues  you,  you  will  tell  me, 
and  then  I  will  read  only  the  most  important  pages. 

—  Do  not  imagine  that,  my  son  :  the  misfortunes  of  otliors 
tire  only  the  rich,  who  know  not  what  it  is  to  suffer ;  we  poor 
plebeians  take  the  deepest  interest  in  the  sufferings  of  our  fel- 
low-beings.    Come,  begin  ;  we  are  burning  with  desire  to  know 
your  misfortunes  from  their  very  origin. 

Jose  sets  the  lamp  upon  a  block,  places  another  block  be- 
side it,  seats  himself,  raises  his  body  as  much  as  his  deformity 
permits,  and  with  animation  in  his  eyes,  assumes  a  distinguished 
air,  which  seems  to  be  that  of  his  youth,  and  begins : 


STORY  OF  A  CONDEMNED. 

It  was  in  1826.  The  grand  city  of  Hamilcar  Barca,  capital  of  the  rich 
principality,  seat  of  the  counts  of  its  name,  and  of  the  raonarchs  of  Ar- 
ragon,  had  lost  its  ancient  splendor,  and  that  colossus  of  prosperity,  that 
emporium  of  riches,  that  scene  of  pleasure?,  that  centre  of  festivities,  that  in- 
dustrious metropolis,  looked  at  Monjuic  as  n  tyrant  that  lorded  it  over  the 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  99 

sad  Barcelona,  on  whose  heights  waved  the  noble  banner  of  Castile,  as  though 
in  mockery.  This  insignia  of  heroes,  of  freemen,  of  profound,  sages  of  gen- 
erous souls,  of  captains  of  prowess,  was  clouded  by  the  smoke  of  cannons, 
which  instead  of  saluting  its  magnificent  colors,  blackened  them  with  the 
blood  of  noble  Castilians,  of  magnanimous  Catalonians,  of  generous  Spaniards. 
Even  the  sky  which  covers  countries  governed  by  despots,  loses  its  enchant- 
ments. That  of  my  country  was  sad,  in  the  midst  of  its  loveliness,  like  the 
countenance  of  a  bea\itiful  woman  dejected  at  the  loss  of  her  children.  The 
sea  groaned  as  it  dashed  its  swelling  waves  against  the  foot  of  Monjuic ; 
the  Llobregat,  emptying  itself  into  the  sea  close  beside  the  impregnable 
giant,  tinted  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  with  blood.  The  inhabitants 
of  the  industrious  and  liberal  manufacturing  metropolis  of  the  principality, 
and  even  of  all  Spain,  went  sad  and  fearful  along  its  narrow  streets.  The 
father  feared  the  son,  the  son  the  father ;  the  brother  feared  the  brother,  the 
husband  the  wife ;  the  Catalonian  feared  the  Castilian,  the  noble  son  of 
Castile  the  industrious  descendant  of  the  Raymonds  and  Berengarias ;  the 
master  feared  the  servant,  the  latter  even  the  passer  by  in  the  street.  Who 
can  have  so  fearfully  transformed  the  Catalonians?  Who  can  have  put  to 
flight  the  confidence  of  Barcelona's  inhabitants  ?  Who  can  have  made  them 
look  up,  on  rising  from  their  beds,  at  the  citadel,  Atarazanas,  Monjuic,  to  see 
if  from  Spanish  gallows  Spaniards  are  hanging?  Who  can  have  made  them 
turn  pale  as  they  hear  the  rumbling  echo  of  the  cannon  losing  itself  over  the 
expanse  of  the  sea,  as  the  announcement  of  the  convolutions  made  by  an 
unhappy  father,  under  the  legs  of  the  executioner  ?*  Who  can  have  sealed 
their  mouths  with  terror,  so  that  no  chorus  is  heard  in  the  workshops  of  these 
inhabitants,  such  lovers  of  music !  Who  can  have  converted  this  liberal 
city  into  a  monastery  of  Jesuits,  in  which  they  are  all  playing  the  spy  with 
the  rosary  in  their  hands?  Can  there  be  in  the  19th  century  monsters  like 
those  of  the  Rome  of  the  Emperors,  who  spread  terror  among  the  citizens 
for  mere  amusement?  Who  ruled  the  destinies  of  this  people?  CARLOS 
ESPANA  ! !  Fearful  name,  phantasm  of  despotism,  a  Nero  become  hangman, 
Attila  of  Catalonia,  a  wretch  who  made  more  tears  flow  in  our  age,  than 
any  other  whomsoever,  even  in  the  ages  called  dark  ;  with  the  fires  of  the  In- 
quisition burning  in  the  public  squares — favorite  spectacle  of  Philip  II. — CAR- 
LOS ESP  ANA ! !  Reproach  to  humanity,  Spanish  and  no  Spaniard,  tiger  with 
foreign  countenance,  hypocrite,  venal.  Why  have  they  given  this  monster  the 
epithet  otL'spatia,  degrading  in  so  atrocious  a  manner  the  name  of  the  nation  ? 

*  The  Spanish  mode  of  hanging  is  for  the  hangman  to  fix  himself  by  his  knees  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  victim,  and  in  this  position  to  give  a  spring  into  the  air,  which  causes  all 
his  own  weight,  as  well  as  that  of  the  victim,  to  unite  with  the  impetus  thus  given  in  the 
strangulation  of  tlio  latter. 


100  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

What  can  the  enlightened  of  our  own  and  foreign  nations  say,  seeing  nt  the 
head  of  the  richest  Spanish  province,  a  superstition?,  hypocritical  miscreant, 
who  makes  a  holiday  of  shedding  blood  ;  even  using  fraudulent  pretences  in 
order  to  spill  it?  What  say  those  who  yet  weep  the  loss  of  their  moM  bo- 
loved  objects  caused  by  him?  What  will  future  generation!  say,  when 
they  read  his  atrocities  ?  What  demon  was  gnawing  at  the  heart  of  this 
despot  to  awaken  in  him  such  rage  and  thirst  for  blood?  Xow,  in  18:'.r>,  lie 
is  yet  immolating  Catalonians ;  but  I  leave  public  opinion  to  condemn 
him,  and  God  to  hurl  him  into  the  lake  of  his  own  blood,  and  p;i-<  «» 
to  relate  what  happened  to  me  this  very  month,  in  the  year  1826. 

—  Jose,  permit  me  to  interrupt  you ;  you  must  have  re- 
ceived a  very  good  education ;  your  language  bespeaks  no  vul- 
gar mind. 

—  That  is  not  in  my  narrative,  Doctor ;  but  I  will  only  say 
that  I  am  the  son  of  an  honest  carpenter,  who  sacrificed  his  life 
to  procure  for  me  the  career  of  an  advocate,  which  I  followed 
for  two  years,  till  the  fall  of  the  Constitution,  when  I  was  pro- 
hibited its  pursuit ;  then   seeing  myself,  with  my  wife  and  two 
children  in  poverty,  I  took  a  carpenter's  shop,  not  despising  the 
business  of  my  father.     My  wife  was  daughter  of  the  brave 
Captain  Vidal,  who  was  shot  by  one  equal  to,  if  not  more  atro- 
cious than  Carlos  Espana,   and  who  was  called   Elio ;  and  al- 
though the   poor  little  thing  was  not  accustomed   to  so  much 
poverty,  she  helped  me  by  her  industry  to  sustain  our  obliga- 
tions.    I  will  go  on  then. 

I  lived  in  a  miserable  house  near  the  end  of  the  street  del  Conde  del  A  xalto, 
and  worked  as  a  carpenter  to  support  my  family.  In  the  year  '21  I  had  been 
a  national  guard  de  la  ley,  that  is  to  say,  by  forced  service;  but  at  the  end 
of  the  same  year  I  read,  I  reflected,  I  turned  over  the  pages  of  some  books, 
educated  myself  a  little  more,  and  finished  by  becoming  a  volunteer  ami 
most  strenuous  defender  of  my  integrity  and  dignity  as  a  man.  This  i -podi 
terminated  as  prematurely  as  it  did  unfortunately,  and  I  set  myself,  as  I 
have  just  said,  in  my  workshop,  and  not  being  able  in  any  other  way  to  throw 
off  the  chagrin  with  which  I  was  overwhelmed  by  the  new  government 
which  had  condemned  me  to  die  of  hunger,  I  set  to  work  day  and  night,  M^- 
sociating  with  no  one  but  my  two  little  ones  and  my  beloved  Luisa,  who 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  Q  \ 

was  as  beautiful  in  soul  as  she  was  fascinating  in  person.  I  believed  no  one 
remembered  me,  for  three  years  had  transpired,  and  now  I  was  only  known 
as  Pepe  the  carpenter.  Sometimes  I  went  out  very  early  in  the  morning  to 
buy  wood,  at  others  to  seek  work,  which  was  scarce  enough  in  those  times 
for  us  poor  liberals  who  were  favored  with  the  nick-name  of  negros,  and 
indeed  we  were  treated  worse  than  those  of  Guinea  in  a  slave-ship.  One 
night  I  was  seated  opposite  my  dear  Luisa,  with  my  daughter  on  my  knees, 
caressing  her  soft  cheeks.  I  felt,  I  knew  not  why,  pain,  suspicion,  doubt, 
anxiety,  and  tenderness,  us  I  looked  upon  my  lovely  wife." 

Here  he  breaks  off,  and  dropping  the  paper  on  his  knees, 
says  : 

—  You  must  know  that  I  adored  my  wife. 

He  picks  the  paper  up  again,  and  with  some  emotion  con- 
tinues : 

"  Luisa's  countenance  was  very  sad,  her  lips  moved  as  though  she  were 
just  bursting  into  tears,  her  eyes  moistened,  she  kept  up  the  click-click-click 
of  a  multitude  of  box-wood  bobbins  which  were  moved  by  her  delicate  fin- 
gers with  incredible  swiftness,  weaving  lace,  an  art  in  which  the  girls  of  Ca- 
talonia excel.  She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  thoughts  she  did  not  notice  that 
I  was  there.  On  the  planing-bench  my  son  lay  sleeping,  as  we  sleep  at  five 
years  old,  when  the  mind  knows  no  other  agitations  than  those  occasioned 
by  pleasure  or  pain,  sole  motive-powers  of  that  age.  The  shavings  on  the 
bench  made  him  an  easy  bed,  and  a  heap  of  them  a  soft  pillow.  For  a 
while  neither  of  us  spoke ;  we  heard  only  the  sound  of  the  bobbins,  and  I 
watched  the  countenance  of  Luisa,  the  sadness  of  which. gave  -me  exceed- 
ing pain.  I  thought  to  myself,  can  it  be  the  misery  in  which  we  live  that 
is  the  cause  of  her  sadness?  for  although  110  word  ever  came  from  her  lips 
that  could  mortify  me,  I  saw  nevertheless,  that  my  poor  little  wife  worked 
too  hard.  Moved  at  seeing  her  so  good,  I  ventured  to  address  her. 

—  Dear  Luisa,  what  is  the  matter?     Can  you  guess  what  I  think  it  is? 
She  went  on  weaving  and  replied : 

—  How  do  you  suppose  I  can  tell  what  you  are  thinking? 

—  Look,  my  darling,  why  is  your  face  tints  puckered,  why  are  you  weep- 
ing ?     Is  it  a  burden  to  you  to  have  united  your  lot  to  that  of  a  poor  unfor- 
tunate being?     Can  you  not  become  accustomed  to  poverty?     Forgive  me, 
my  Luisa,  forgive  me,  but  I  never  dreamt  that  I  should  have  to  make  you 
work  to  maintain  your  children. 

My  wife  threw  down  the  lace-pillow,  came  to  me,  wound  her  arms  round 
my  neck,  and  bursting  into  tears,  said  : 


1 02  THE  T\VU 

—  Son  of  my  bosom,  my  Pepe,  don't  be  unjust  to  your  poor  Luisa,  the 
misery  of  the  father  of  my  children  is  glory  for  me  ;  my  mother  also,  after 
my  poor  father  was  shot,  mixed  tears  with  the  bread  she  kneaded.     !No, 
Pepe,  no,  do  not  be  so  cruel 

—  Then  what  is  the  matter,  daughter  of  my  soul,  what  is  the  matter? 

—  Oh !  Pepe,  it  is  something  terrible,  dreadful ! 

—  Speak,  I  am  dying  with  anxiety. 

She  shook  off  her  tears,  took  up  my  little  daughter  who  was  lying  half 
asleep  on  my  knees,  and  said  to  me : 

—  Let  me  put  our  children  to  bed,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  is  afflicting 
me. 

Ten  minutes  afterwards  she  was  at  my  side.  She  sat  down  on  my  knees, 
laid  her  heavenly  face  against  mine,  and  pressing  my  cheek  with  her  fore- 
head, bathed  it  in  teal's.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  announce  to  me  that 
we  had  another  child,  that  she  was  conscious  of  the  life  of  a  being  that  was 
a  part  of  our  own  life,  and  I  began  caressing  her,  heaping  up  kisses  upon  her 
and  uttering  some  few  words  which  revealed  my  thought. 

—  Xo,  Pepe,  it  is  not  that,  that  would  be  a  motive  for  joy;  it  is  not  that. 
Listen.     I  believe  my  virtue  is  known  to  you;  I  believe  your  little  wife 
knows  how  to  love  you  with  all  her  poor  soul,  so  that  you  cannot  suspect  I 
have  given  any  occasion  for  what  you  are  about  to  hear. 

My  heart,  which,  with  her  first  tears,  and  at  the  idea  of  having  another 
child,  had  dilated  like  a  sponge  filled  with  perfumed  water,  shrank  as  though 
an  iron  hand  had  squeezed  out  of  it  the  very  last  drop  of  gladness,  and  with 
a  suffocating  dryness  in  the  throat,  I  gazed  upon  her  and  would  fain  have 
died,  for  one  who  loves  as  I  did  cannot  live  if  he  gets  a  glimpse  of  what  I 
began  to  perceive. 

—  You  must  know, — she  continued — that  some  weeks  ago,  I  observed  a 
tall  man,  with  French  countenance,  red  moustache,  with  his  hat  pulled  down 
to  his  eyebrows,  and  with  a  shuffling  gait,  passing  by  here  very  early  in  the 
morning  nearly  every  day.     You  will  say,  that  for  a  mutter  which  did  not 
concern  me,  I  took  too  much  notice ;  but  presently  you  will  see  how  it  was. 
The  day  before  yesterday  I  was  sweeping  in  front  of  the  door  about  five 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  you  had  gone  out  to  buy  this  wood  ;  the  little 
ones  were  asleep,  and  he  came  up  to  me  and  wanted  to  stroke  my  cheek. 
I  lifted  up  my  broom  to  give  the  impudent  fellow  a  blow ;    but  he  very 
ealmlv  and  smiling  said  tome:    "Poor  Noya,*  such    a  pretty  little    thing, 
and  sweeping?"    That  is  nothing  to  you,  I  replied,  so  have  the  goodness  to  go 
about  your  business  and  don't  be  ill-mannered.     "This  Carlos  Espaiia,"  con- 
tinued the  man,  "is  a  cruel  fellow,  ordering  such  charming  little  creatures 

*  Meaning  in  the  Catalonian  dialect— girl. 


THE     #£AU  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  1Q3 

to  sweep  the  streets  twice  a  day."  Go  along  with  you  and  your  CArlos  Espana, 
I  replied,  and  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  when  he  added :  "  You  must  he  a 
liberal,  that  frown  cannot  be  other  than  one  of  the  year  '20.  Well,  Cdrlos 
Espana  is  a  knave ;  you  are  right,  Noya,  but  hope  to  Heaven  that  the  po- 
lice have  not  heard  us."  And  he  went  away.  After  him  came  two  ill-look- 
ing men.  This  is  the  cause  of  my  sadness.  Who  can  tell  who  that  man 
may  be  ?  You  know  already  what  happened  to  poor  Engracia,  the  turner's 
daughter,  for  a  less  cause. 

My  wife  buried  her  divine  face'  between  my  neck  and  whiskers  as  though 
to  hide  her  fear.  Receiving  the  breath  of  Luisa  in  my  bosom,  and  covering 
her  cherubic  head  with  ardent  kisses,  I  saw  passing  before  my  heated  imag- 
ination the  tyrant  of  Catalonia ;  the  portrait  was  perfect ;  jealousy  depicted 
before  my  eyes  tilings  which  up  to  that  time  had  no  existence.  I  was 
foaming  with  rage,  my  breathing  was  thickened ;  if  Luisa  had  let  me  go  out 
I  should  have  committed  some  folly.  That  night  I  double  locked  the  doors 
and  clasped  my  wife  tightly  in  my  arms,  fearing  lest  they  should  steal  her 
from  my  side.  My  dreams  were  fearful.  I  saw  my  children  crying  for 
their  mother ;  I  saw  Luisa  transported  to  one  of  the  villas  of  Engracia*  in 
the  hands  of  that  mussulman ;  I  saw  myself  in  desperation,  buried  alive, 
looking  up  at  the  moon  as  though  I  could  see  in  that  satellite  what  she  with 
moistened  eyes  imprinted  on  it.  These  dreams  were  the  preludes  of  the 
atrocious  reality. 

On  the  following  day  I  said  to  Luisa  :  "  Daughter  of  my  heart,  do  not 
sweep  any  more,  from  this  day  forward  I  will  do  it  myself;  it  is  nothing 
more  than  gathering  up  the  shavings,  and  thus  we  shall  escape  that  man." 
This  was,  in  fact,  done,  and  not  a  few  were  the  times  that  I  saw  that  Fan- 
tasmon  pass  by.  Oh !  if  we  two  had  been  alone  he  should  have  died,  and 
who  knows  what  would  have  happened  to  us ;  but  my  children  ?  the  poor 
little  innocent  creatures?  those  fragments  of  our  very  hearts  ?  and  the  youth 
of  my  charming  wife  ?  and  the  consolations  her  divine  lips  afforded  me  ?  and 
the  reflection  that  gold  acquires  no  impurity  even  in  a  slough  of  mud  ?  and 
the  caresses  of  my  little  ones?  The  rage  of  jealousy  when  a  wife  is  innocent, 
when  she  is  truly  adored,  when  she  has  given  no  ground  for  the  first  dawn 
of  suspicion,  is  converted  into  froth  incapable  of  wiping  out  stains.  Oh!  to 
see  the  death  of  the  sentiments  caused  by  these  wretches,  to  hear  their  fiend- 
ish condemnations,  to  see  a  hell  of  sufferings  inflicted  solely  for  caprice,  is, 
we  must  confess,  a  veritable  dying  by  inches.  Time,  oh!  time  is  a  great 
teacher. 


*  A  charming  village  near  Barcelona,  containing  many  splendid  mansions  of  the  Barce- 
lona merchants. 


104  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

Two  months  had  passed ;  she  no  longer  remembered  the  audacious  man, 
and  I  had  almost  forgotten  him.  It  was  night;  it  was  valuing;  my  chil- 
dren were  asleep ;  we  were  just  going  to  bed,  when  several  violent  raps 
were  heard  011  the  door.  My  Luisa  began  to  tremble.  I  remained  in  sus- 
pense ;  the  knocks  were  repeated,  and  a  voice  said  : 

—  Jose  Feliu,  open  the  door,  I  am  LJoveras,  Captain  of  the  bomb-ketch. 

This  name  was  very  dear  to  me,  for  Lloveras  was  a  Liberal,  and  I  had 
not  seen  him  for  three  years.  I  was  indebted  to  him  for  many  benefit?,  and 
what  will  not  a  grateful  man  do  for  a  benefactor?  Luisa  and  1  believed  IK- 
was  in  danger,  and  at  a  bound  I  was  at  the  door.  Luisa  followed  me,  and 
also  my  little  ones,  who  had  woke  up.  I  opened  the  wicket,  and  four  armed 
men  entered  my  house,  showed  me  an  order  of  the  General,  which  I  read 
by  the  light  of  their  lantern,  and  having  tied  my  arms,  they  proceeded 
to  do  the  same  to  Luisa  If  they  had  applied  a  burning  brand  '"  my 
pupils,  I  should  not  have  made  a  more  convulsive  spring,  and  freeing 
myself  from  the  cords  which  bound  me,  and  not  being  able  to  get  at  any 
weapon  with  which  to  fell  the  csbirro  to  the  ground,  I  f-ei/.ed  his  arm  with 
my  teeth,  nor  did  I  leave  my  hold  till  a  piece  of  his  flesh  was  brought  away 
between  them.  My  children  screamed  and  clung  to  their  mother's  skirts.  I 
was  raving,  so  thattwo  men  could  not  hold  me.  Mv  wife  tainted  ;  thev  drag- 
ged us  away,  put  us  into  some  coaehe-  after  the  fashion  of  those  of  the  liu[ui>i- 
tion,  and  we  were  transported  to  the  dungeons  of  the  citadel,  without  know- 
ing for  what  cause  or  for  wliat  end.  I  could  not  .-ay  farewell  to  Luisa,  nor 
would  they  even  suffer  me  to  iihpress  a  kiss  on  the  dear  little  heads  of  my 
children. 

Jose  begins  to  weep,  with  the  paper  in  his  hand ;  Schmidt 
shakes  his  moustachios  to  roll  off  the  tears  which  stand  upon 
them.  Hector  clings  with  an  air  of  dread  to  Rosamunda,  who 
is  weeping,  the  country  girl  sighs  deeply,  Jose  half  raises  his 
twisted  neck,  and  exclaims  : 

• —  And  this  was  the  beginning !  Oh  !  night  a  thousand 
times  blacker  than  death  ! 

—  Jose,  my  son,  can  you  go  on  1 

—  I  am   about  to   continue.     Does   my    narrative    fatigue 
you? 

—  No,  Jose,  no-,  we  weep  with  you — they  all  exclaim — we 
weep  with  you.     Poor  little  ones  !    Unhappy  Jose  !  Unfortu- 
nate Luisa  ! 


THE  tiUlNS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  1Q5 

—  I  will  go  on. 

Fifteen  nights  passed — for  in  that  dark  dungeon  no  day  dawns — of  my 
sufferings  during  which  I  can  give  you  no  idea.  I  knew  nothing  of  my 
wife ;  I  heard  not  a  word  of  my  children ,  I  got  no  hint  of  why  I  was  there ; 
for  though  I  guessed  it,  I  nevertheless  tried  hard  to  deceive  myself.  Death 
is  better  than  believing  oneself  robbed  of  honor.  I  had  read  much  of  what 
occurred  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition,  but  vast  as  it  was,  it  bore  no 
comparison  with  the  moral  martyrdom  I  was  suffering.  On  repeated  occa- 
sions, the  demon  of  suicide  flattered  my  soul,  presenting  to  me  its  very  im- 
mortal spirituality,  as  an  inducement  to  the  consummation  of  the  crime.  I 
felt  blown  into  my  ears  these,  or  similar  words:  "If  that  monster  should  use 
tortures  to  secure  a  triumph  over  the  virtue  of  your  innocent  wife,  how 
could  you,  imprisoned  in  the  double  dungeon  of  your  body  and  thece  rocks, 
know  any  thing  about  it  ?  How  could  you  hinder  the  triumph  of  vice  over 
virtue?  Look!  all  may  be  happening  in  this  moment:  imagine  that  the 
pain  of  the  rack  is  about  to  be  employed,  and  that  the  denuded  body  of  your 
Luisa  is  stretching  little  by  little,  the  joints  give  way,  the  bones  crack, 
and  he  with  fiendish  voice,  with  inflamed  eyes,  with  the  convulsions  of  re- 
fined vice,  cries  to  her,  '  Confess,  confess  what  I  have  ordered  you.' "  Then 
my  brains  trembled,  and  I  was  about  to  dash  them  upon  the  hard  stone.  This 
odious  image  passed  away,  and  I  saw  Luisa  anew,  with  her  beautiful  black 
hair  tied  to  a  rope,  with  no  clothing  but  a  sheet,  suspended  by  her  hair  from 
a  pulley,  compelled  thus  to  try  to  rest  the  tips  of  her  feet  upon  the  ground, 
which  for  pavement  had  blocks  of  wood  full  of  sharp  spikes,  which  tore  her 
delicate  feet,  making  them  drop  blood,  and  tearing  away  pieces  of  flesh ; 
struggling  in  the  agonies  of  suffocation  ;  oscillating  with  the  efforts  she  made 
to  touch  the  ground ;  drawing  up  her  feet  from  the  points  of  the  spikes,  and 
nearly  choked,  nearly  naked,  with  her  convulsive  struggles  seeking  mercy, 
the  tyrant  saying  to  her,  "Say  yes  to  what  I  told  you."  Then,  again,  I 
longed  to  burst  open  my  skull  and  leave  this  body,  which  hindered  my  soul 
from  seeing  what  was  taking  place,  believing  that  my  soul  would  confound 
the  monster  with  a  breath,  although  it  were  from  hell.  These,  and  other 
more  horrible  ideas  wore  me  out,  and  left  me  powerless,  till  at  last  I  sat 
down  upon  the  ground,  and  wept,  in  a  state  of  frightful  stupefaction. 

One  day,  when  I  had  suffered  a  thousand  deaths  at  every  breath,  I  heard 
footsteps.  It  was  not  the  hour  for  bringing  me  dinner,  so  that  I  took  hope, 
and  thought  at  least  to  be  brought  before  the  tribunal,  and  see  my  precious 
Luisa,  even  though  afterwards  they  shot  me.  The  heavy  bolt  creaked  more 
slowly  than  usual.  I  heard  the  padlock  loosened  from  the  door,  which 
grated  on  its  hinges.  I  saw,  as  it  were  the  twilight  of  a  cloudy  winter 
5* 


106  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

moruiiig,  through  the  iron  cross-bare  of  the  door,  that  I  touched  in  that  mo- 
ment, the  voice  of  a  woman  said  to  me  : — Prisoner,  I  have  brought  you  the 
ration  of  bread  which  was  forgotten  this  morning. — The  steps  of  a  sentinel 
were  heard — whispering,  she  added, — within  there  is  a  piece  of  paper  from 
Luisa,  read  it  while  I  go  up  the  stairs. — Whether  I  blessed  that  woman, 
that  messenger  of  Heaven,  it  is  unnecessary  oven  to  consider.  I  opened  the 
loaf,  nud  by  the  scant}'  light,  which  for  me  was  the  brightness  of  a  May  sun, 
I  read,  written  with  charcoal  in  Luisa's  hand,  as  follows:  .  .  .  "will  come 
....  at  11  ....  poor  L.  .  .  .  ."  The  first  door  creaked,  and  I  uttered 
n  groan  which  moved  my  very  soul. 

There  are  some  critical  moments  of  life,  in  which  the  excitation  of  the 
soul  is  so  tremendous,  that  we  even  leave  the  earth  on  which  we  dwell,  and 
act  from  instinct,  or  by  some  power,  I  know  not  what,  that  governs  us.  I 
know  that  I  devoured  the  paper,  masticated  it,  crushed  it  in  pieces,  ground 
it,  reduced  it  to  saliva,  swallowed  it,  not  for  fear  they  should  seize  it,  but 
because  it  had  touched  the  hands  of  my  wife,  and  perhaps  she  had  hidden  it 
in  her  bosom,  and  perhaps  had  kissed  it,  and  perhaps  had  moistened  it  with 
her  tears. 

—  Poor  Jose,  exclaims  Schmidt,  poor  Jose  ! 

There  yet  remained  some  remnants  of  the  beloved  paper  between  my 
teeth,  when  the  accursed  Avords,  with  all  their  letters,  assaulted  my  memory, 
".  .  .  will  come  ...  at  11  ....  poor  L  .  .  .  ."  At  11,  I  exclaimed  in 
desperation,  at  1 1 !  This  must  be  by  night .  .  .  .  Horror!  And  where  can 
you  be,  my  poor  Luisa  ?  Oh !  if  but  the  kind  woman  had  at  least  told  me  that ! 
Oh!  if  she  returns,  if  she  returns,  I  w  ill  ask  her;  yes,  she  will  tell  me  .... 
Oh!  if  it  were  near  me,  I  could  at  least  hear  if  she  cried  out ;  if  thcv  tor- 
tured her,  and  I  were  not  already  sufferint:  physically,  I  could  sympathize 
with  her  in  soul ;  I  would  cry  out  like  a  fiend,  like  Lucifer,  as  no  words  can 
<  \pn-s,  to  frighten  the  monster,  if  he  have  any  fear  of  the  things  of  the 
other  world,  or  by  making  Luisa  hear  my  voice,  give  courage  to  her.  Oh! 
yes,  she  will  know  my  voice  as  the  female  palm-tree  feels  th<'  kis-cs  of  her 
companion  wafted  to  her  from  across  the  desert ;  she  will  hear  my  voice,  as 
the  dying  father  hears  the  groans  of  his  children  before  sinking  into 
eternity. 

When  we  are  expecting  some  happiness,  the  moments  pass  like  the  wa- 
ters of  a  deep  and  rapid  river,  without  our  taking  notice  of  their  silent  flow  : 
they  seem  to  us  to  be  ever  the  same.  When  it  is  some  impending  calamity 
that  threatens  us,  every  second  is  a  year  in  an  Inquisitorial  dungeon.  I 
know  not  how  to  describe  the  passing  of  that  time  which  had  to  elaj 


THE  .RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  107 

it  would  be,  according  to  my  idea,  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  lu  those  deep 
glooms  which  the  cruel  genius  of  man  has  invented,  to  hide  from  his  equals 
the  beautiful  daylight ;  flying  in  the  face  of  what  God  said,  that  the  sun 
was  created  to  give  light  to  the  evil  and  to  the  good ;  although  one  is  in 
eternal  night,  the  day  is  distinguishable  through  the  eternal  silence  that 
reigns  in  it.  Placed  in  one  of  these  pits,  you  seem  to  be  buried,  to  be 
travelling  the  road  to  eternity,  to  hear  but  the  echo  of  the  voice  of  men  on 
the  earth,  that  confused  murmur  which  is  perceived  at  three  or  four  leagues 
distance  from  the  great  cities  in  the  solitude  of  the  fields ;  and  at  night  all 
remains  in  immobility,  so  that  the  report  of  the  footsteps  of  one  walking  over- 
head, though  the  vault  be  of  extreme  thickness,  makes  apoom ....  poom ....  as 
solemn  as  it  is  melancholy.  My  dungeon  was,  as  I  have  said,  separated  from 
the  corridor  by  a  flight  of  steps,  which  led  down  to  my  den,  and  two  doors 
with  gratings,  to  the  lower  of  which  my  desperation  suggested  that  I  should 
apply  my  ear,  gathering  it  up  with  both  hands  to  unite  closer  attention  and 
greater  body  of  sound,  and  I  remained  thus  for  two  or  three  hours,  loth 
even  to  breathe.  Man,  when  in  the  expectancy  of  desperation,  does  not  so 
much  as  think ;  he  is  beside  himself ;  all  his  powers  are  concentrated  in  that 
organ  which  is  about  to  give  life  or  death  to  his  heart.  I  was  exceedingly 
weak ;  for  the  miserable  mess  they  called  dinner,  had  not  been  brought  me 
that  evening ;  but  on  that  very  account,  I  believe,  I  had  my  senses,  and  par- 
ticularly my  hearing,  more  spiritualized.  Something  was  approaching,  for  I 
heard  a  sound  like  rain ;  the  image  presented  to  my  fancy  by  this  sound 
was  so  atrocious,  that  there  began  to  ring  in  my  ears,  sounds  of  pum,  pum, 
putn,  pum,  BO  agitated  and  violent,  that  I  could  hear  nought  else.  How 
miserable  is  man  !  The  bolts  of  the  door  creaked ;  the  light  of  a  lantern  fell 
upon  me  ;  I  fancied  I  saw  my  adored  Luisa,  with  my  little  ones  clinging  to 
her  hands ;  I  fancied  I  saw  the  kind-heai'ted  woman  of  the  beloved  paper  ; 
I  fancied  I  saw  the  jailer ;  I  fancied  I  saw  the  executioner,  who  was  going 
to  prepare  for  4  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  I  fancied  I  saw  the  judges — all 
this  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  I  fancied  I  saw — scarcely  a  second  could 
have  passed,  for  I  heard  a  voice  which  said  to  me : 

—  Criminal,  here  is  the  first  magistrate. 

All  my  senses  had  ceased  to  perform  their  office,  and  were  united  in  that 
of  hearing.  I  answered  nothing.  He  repeated  again,  putting  the  lantern 
to  the  grating :  « 

—  Criminal,  here  is  the  first  magistrate. 

Then  I  saw  some  saffron-colored  whiskers,  which  converted  me  into 
all  eyes.  It  was  CARLOS  ESPAXA  ! 

Jose  Feliii  lets  his  arms  fall,  and  as  a  prelude  of  some  great 


1 08  'ME  T  I  VO  I'-*  - 

emotion,  sighs  deeply.  Schmidt  and  the  hearers  respect  his 
sorrowing  silence,  and  prepare  to  hear  the  sequel  with,  if  it 
were  possible,  still  greater  attention.  Jose  gives  a  very  ex- 
pressive movement  of  his  shoulders,  aud  trimming  the  wicks  of 
the  lamp  continues : 

On  seeing  him  I  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  convulsive  tremor  of  intense 
rage ;  but  what  I  felt  was  so  profound  that  its  explosion,  seeking  to  burst 
forth  at  one  stroke,  found  no  vent,  and  my  overwhelming  emotion  itself 
sealed  my  lips.  Then  the  proud  despot  raised  his  voice,  and  brandishing  his 
wand  of  office,  said : 

—  Villain !  dare  you  thus  insult  God's  vicegerent  xipon  the  earth  ?  one 
who  holds  your  life  or  death  in  his  hands?     Answer,  respond  to  my  au- 
thority. 

When  I  heard  the  holy  name  of  God  pronounced  by  this  monster,  [ 
looked  through  the  black  walls  of  the  dungeons  up  to  Heaven,  to  see  if  a 
thunderbolt  of  Divine  indignation  would  not  come  and  set  us  free,  Luisa, 
my  little  ones,  and  myself,  from  that  beast  of  prey ;  and  in  frenzy  I  re- 
plied : 

—  Thus,  being  unable  to  tear  out  their  hearts,  I  answer  the  cowards  who 
insult  the  Dignity  of  Man. 

And  I  spat  in  his  face. 

—  Here  I  will  pass  over  three  or  four  pages  which  are  de- 
void of  interest,  and  will  come  to  the  matter  in  hand. 

—  Why  do  you  say  they  have  no  interest,  Jose?     Go  on, 
do  not  omit  any  thing. 

—  I  assure  you,  Doctor,  they  are  entirely  uninteresting. 
And  he  turns  over  one  or  two  leaves. 

—  Listen. 

I  know  not  whether  it  was  one  o'clock  or  eleven  o'clock  at  night ;  it  is 
certain  I  must  have  passed  a  long  space  of  time  ere  I  recovered  my  reason, 
for  when  I  spat  upon  him  I  became  mad  with  rage,  and  what  I  said  to  him, 
the  efforts  that  I  made,  the  convulsion  of  my  body,  were  more  tlian  suffi- 
cient to  kill  a  lion. 

One  time  when  my  soul  was  master  of  my  disconcerted  srnsos  I  observe, 1 
Hint  tin-  outer  .lour  wemed  to  be  open,  and  I  was  confirmed  in  this  idea  by 
b-aring  -omul?.  nn>re  clearly,  and  feeling  wind  enter.  Oh  !  every  mouthful 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETK  \  09 

of  the  Mediterranean  breeze8  was  a  kiss  sent  me  by  Luisa !  Clinging  with 
l>oth  hands  to  the  iron  grating,  and  my  face  placed  close  to  it,  riveted  to  the 
cross,  a  column  of  fire  proceeded  from  my  mouth  which,  I  believed,  thus 
judge  those  who  love  and  are  unhappy,  would  reach  far  enough  to  caress  the 
beautiful  chevelure  of  my  idolized  wife  and  the  curly  little  heads  of  my  be- 
loved children.  A  strange  sound  which  now  arose  made  me  shudder,  turn 
my  head  aside  to  hear  better,  close  my  eyes  tightly,  press  against  the  iron, 
which  grew  hot  within  my  hands,  suspend  my  breath.  The  noise  was  as  of 
voices,  it  grew  with  every  respiration,  it  seemed  like  a  man  and  a  woman ; 
did  I  know  those  voices?  For  answer,  I  heard  screams  and  feet  running. 
All  was  dark ;  the  person  who  was  running  came  towards  me  screaming, 
the  sound  stopped  at  the  first  door  of  my  dungeon,  I  heard  myself  called  by 
name — Pepe !  ! ! 

It  was  Luisa. 

— Come,  Luisa — I  exclaimed  with  enamored  voice. 

She  who  had  just  called  me  fell  rolling  down  those  stairs,  and  her  body 
struck  against  the  door  through  which  I  was  looking.  The  door  separated 
us.  The  door  separated  us !  ....  I  said  to  her : 

—  I  am  here,  1  am  here ! 

She  followed  my  voice  in  the  darkness  of  that  hell,  I  thrust  out  the  tips 
of  my  fingers,  touched  her  cold  hand,  our  lips  united,  I  asked  her  for  my 
children,  she  answered  me  : 

—  They  are  in  the  Casa  de  Misericordia  .  .  .  . — and  gave  a  heart-rend- 
ing cry,  the  echo  of  which  was  quenched  in  the  voice  of  the  monster,  who 
appeared  at  that  moment  at  the  upper  door  with  the  lantern  in  his  hand. 
I  made  a  last  effort,  tore  my  flesh  in  forcing  rny  hand  through  the  grating 
as  far  as  the  wrist,  seized  the  arm  of  my  wife ;  by  the  light  of  the  lantern 
I  saw  that  she  was  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  her  breast  all  uncovered ;  I  shud- 
dered, my  heart  quaked ;  he  sent  down  a  bailiff  to  force  Luisa  away  from 
me,  she  began  to  cry  out  with  frenzy,  I  held  her  by  the  arm  as  though  wo 
were  one  flesh ;  he  came  down  with  the  lantern.     Coward !  even  within  a 
dungeon  he  was  afraid  of  me !     Luisa  screamed : 

—  I  will  not  go ;  let  them  kill  me,  Pepe,  let  them  kill  me,  he  wants 
he  wants he  wants  to  mock  at  my  nakedness. 

The  savage  beast !  he  put  his  hand  on  her  mouth ;  the  bailiff  struck  me 
violently  with  the  heavy  key  across  my  knuckles  which  forced  me,  whether 
I  would  or  no,  to  leave  my  hold  of  Luisa,  they  lifted  her  up,  dragging  her 
between  them,  naked,  without  the  blanket ;  I  saw  that  man,  no !  that  fiend  1 
rolling  his  lustful  eyes  over  the  treasure  of  my  heart,  and  the  remnant  of 
my  strength  fled.  I  remained  hanging  by  one  hand,  which,  as  you  may  see 
even  now,  is  all  mangled.  Oh !  oh !  oh !  even  yet,  deprived  of  sense,  I 


1 1 0  THE  TWO  FA  TJ1ERS. 

heard  Luisa  saying,  "  I  will  die  first  Adieu,  Pepe,  adieu,"  and  she  gave 
herself  a  blow  against  the  wall,  from  the  results  of  which,  as  I  learned  the, 
next  day,  she  died. 

—  I  cannot  ....  go  on,  ....  I  cannot 

Jose"  goes  out  weeping  to  his  own  room,  to  pour  forth  sighs 
and  groans  in  the  caverns  of  the  Paraclete,  and  curse  the  great 
till  he  could  take  vengeance  on  them  for  their  iniquities. 

The  tableau  presented  by  those  who  have  thus  far  heard  his 
narration,  would  furnish  a  subject  for  the  pencil  of  Verne t.  imr 
be  among  the  worst  that  have  sprung  from  his  hand.  Schmidt 
remains  dejected,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground ;  Rosamunda 
weeps,  clinging  with  the  right  hand  to  the  doctor's  knee,  with 
the  left  in  the  hands  of  Hector,  whose  countenance  is  filled  with 
indignation  and  dread ;  the  country  girl.  Martha,  pulls  out  her 
handkerchief  and  sighs ;  the  lamp  flickers,  and  all  are  silent. 
The  doctor  is  the  first  to  make  an  exclamation  : 

—  How  unhappy  is  the  people  through  the  want  of  that  equi- 
librium in  the  rational  faculties  which  creates  social  harmony. 

Rosamunda  says : 

—  Poor  Luisa  !     Poor  little  children  !     Unhappy  Jose  ! 
Martha,  the  country  girl,  sighs : 

—  Happy  Luisa.  that  had  the  heart  to  dash  out  her  brains  ! 
Hector  looks  at  Schmidt  and  inquires  with  curiosity : 

—  Doctor,  and  how  were  you  able  to  obtain  the  body  of  the 
poor  Jose? 

—  My  children,  I  owe  it  to  chance.     Understand  that  when 
I  arrived  at  Barcelona,  I  heard  some  talk  of  a  French  captain  of 
grenadiers  who.  in  1823,  in  that  same  city,  had  lost  his  reason, 
being  in  the  garrison  of  the  citadel,  and  persisting  in  it  that  he 
was  the  chief  of  the  place.     As  his  insanity,  while  they  left  him 
there,  had  no  furious   symptoms,  and   had  many  as  soon  as  he 
was  taken  away,  the  French  Charge  d' Affaires  obtained  permis- 
sion from  the  Spanish  authorities  of  the  Court  to  keep  the  de- 
monted  man  in  the  place  under  certain  restrictions.     As  soon 
as   I  set  foot   in  the  consulate,  the  representative   of  France 


THE  R  U1NS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  \  \ 

told  me  that  M.  Constantin,  captain  of  the  39th  of  the  line,  had 
become  lunatic  ;  his  name  recalled  to  me  a  person  whom  I 
knew,  and  I  sought  permission  to  visit  him ;  he  turned  out  in 
fact  to  be  the  person  I  thought,  and  I  obtained  leave  to  attend 
him  in  the  double  capacity  of  a  physician  and  a  friend,  since  this 
relation  also  subsisted  between  us.  At  that  time  Jose  was  in 
the  dungeons,  as  was  .also  his  wife  ;  and  Carlos  Espana,  who, 
from  sympathy  of  blood,  loved  the  French,  if  that  wretch  de- 
serves to  have  the  word  love  used  in  relation  to  him,  intrust- 
ed to  me  the  care  of  Luisa,  which  I  never  told  Jose ;  she  died, 
for  her  wounds  were  mortal ;  and  afterwards  I  easily  obtained 
the  grant  of  Jose's  corpse,  to  be  delivered  to  me  some  minutes 
after  the  execution,  for  the  purpose  of  study.  How  I  restored 
him  to  life  you  know,  so  that  it  only  now  remains  for  us  to  re- 
member that  we,  all  who  are  here,  are  victims  of  those  who  are 
called  the  great  of  the  earth.  Heaven  grant,  my  children,  that 
you  should  not  some  day  have  to  relate,  if  they  give  you  time 
for  it,  how  these  blood-thirsty  tigers  have  martyrized  your 
souls !  The  night  is  advanced,  and  it  is  time  we  retired.  Space 
yet  remains  to  us  to  make  comments  on  the  scenes  Jose  has 
read  to  us,  and  draw  from  them  a  great  instruction  for  the  fu- 
ture. Now,  my  children,  go  to  bed ;  cherish  your  honor  and 
dignity  above  all  that  is  in  the  earth,  and  never  permit  the  no- 
bleman without  education,  or  the  stupid  rich,  or  the  heartless 
mandarin,  to  tread  your  honor,  your  lineage  as  Rational  Beings, 
your  nobility  of  soul,  under  his  unclean  feet.  Men  and  women 
ought  to  fly  from  dangers  ;  but  if  it  is  not  given  them,  by  their 
position,  to  separate  themselves  from  intercourse  with  these  ne- 
farious people,  they  ought  to  die,  but  never  prostitute  their 
semi-divine  dignity.  Retire  to  rest. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

IT  is  difficult  in  our  day  to  fiud  narratives  in  which  heroes  do 
not  appear  as  extraordinary  as  they  are  fantastic.  It  seems  as 
though  the  events  of  the  day,  with  their  prodigious  magnitude, 
their  unexpected  developments,  their  surprising  scenes,  and  the 
progress  of  the  natural  sciences  with  their  semi-miracles,  oper- 
ated in  a  singular  manner  upon  writers,  who,  lost  in  so  much 
wonder,  and  anxious  not  to  display  their  own  littleness,  create 
fantastic  beings  with  astonishing  colorings  and  superhuman  pow- 
ers. The  object  they  propose  to  themselves  is  to  disguise  their 
own  smallness  beside  the  colossal  events  presented  by  actual 
society  ;  for  who  is  not  astounded  at  the  transformations  and 
improvements  the  world  has  undergone  these  last  fifty  years  ? 
Who,  in  looking  at  the  march  of  things,  will  venture  to  say 
what  will  be  its  end?  Look  here  at  France  in  1848.  To  read 
what  passed  the  24th  of  February,  when  she  went  to  bed  mo- 
narchical, and  awoke  republican,  is  enough  to  annihilate  the 
most  profound  politician ;  and  the  same  cause  makes  the  heads 
of  the  writers  go  astray,  and  from  so  much  that  is  marvellous 
in  fact,  they  rush  to  enchantments,  knight-errantries,  literary, 
political,  and  moral  exaggerations,  and  go  back  to  the  barba- 
rous style,  which,  during  the  16th  century,  prevailed  in  Spain 
and  Italy.  And  if  in  literature  they  degenerate,  the  same  hap- 
pens in  politics  ;  for  exaggerations  are  always  bad.  We  ought 
to  be  well  assured  that  every  thing  which  steps  beyond  human 
possibility  can  only  dazzle  for  a  moment,  and  that  then  reason 
will  say,  with  cold  indifference,  "idle  tales,  all  idle  tales  r 
and  from  such  things  man  learns  nothing.  Why  do  the  works 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  \  3 

of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  the  productions  of  the 
Golden  Ages  of  Spain.  England.  France,  Italy,  and  Germany, 
never  grow  old  ?  Why  are  they  read  again  and  again,  with 
ever-growing  pleasure,  ever  discovering  beauties,  instruction, 
and  wonders,  which  appear  new?  Why  do  those  of  our  day 
pique  the  curiosity  at  first,  and  yet  never  get  taken  up  to  be 
read  a  second  time  ?  Because  the  former  copy  nature,  study 
her  secrets,  sometimes  surprising  her,  at  others  gaining  glimpses 
of  what  she  jealously  hides  from  them,  and  on  all  occasions 
make  manifest  to  us  that  her  great  book  has  inimitable  pages, 
which  will  cause  men  pleasure  till  the  end  of  their  existence. 
And  we  moderns,  thinking  to  surpass  nature,  go  beyond  her 
sphere,  and  become  visionaries.  This  is  a  defect  which,  as  chil- 
dren of  our  age,  we  may  perchance  contract ;  but  as  our  school 
is  antique,  and  our  taste  is  for  nature,  we  shall  take  all  the 
means  in  our  power  to  correct  it,  whenever  the  imagination 
wanders,  and  the  hand  runs  without  being  borne  along  by  the 
understanding.  We  beg  pardon  for  having  to  speak  of  our- 
selves, poor  beginners,  who  sufficiently  know  our  own  littleness 
not  to  pretend  to  teach  any  one.  But  when  we  write  we  do 
not  believe  no  one  will  read  us,  and  we  say  all  that  we  feel,  as 
we  are  always  accustomed  to  do,  without  fearing  lest  there  may 
be  some  who  will  laugh  at  our  weaknesses  ;  and  as  one  of  these 
was  just  now  to  place  on  the  scene  preternatural  and  magical 
personages,  so  we  wish  our  fault  to  be  known,  and,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  others,  hold  it  up  before  our  face.  We  are  now  going 
to  amend,  by  continuing  our  story  through  the  agency  of  men 
of  flesh  and  blood,  acting  in  this  world  of  clay,  and  not  in  imagi- 
nary spheres. 

While  those  of  the  Paraclete  were  spending  the  days  as  we 
have  seen,  the  Baron  de  Vieux  was  in  Paris,  and,  for  mere 
amusement,  went  to  visit  the  Chief  Magistrate  of  the  Police. 
The  influence  of  the  de  Vieux  at  the  court  of  Louis  Philippe 
was  not  slight,  in  consideration  of  important  services  which 
had  been  rendered  in  Argel.  and  even  in  Paris,  by  an  uncle  of 
this  nobleman,  whom  the  king  himself  held  in  distinguished 


1 1 4  THE  TWO  FA  77/A7/.Y 

esteem  ;  and  de  Vieux,  who  was  the  pet  of  his  uncle,  a  General, 
and  his  heir,  was  moreover  a  person  of  intimate  relations  with 
the  palace,  through  the  family  of  the  Baroness,  his  spouse,  who 
belonged  to  the  first  families  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain. 
The  machinations  of  Fieschi  and  others',  which  had  taken  place 
recently,  had  awakened  greater  mistrust  in  the  Citizen  King, 
or  rather  in  his  ministers  ;  for  Louis  Philippe, — no  matter  what 
may  be  said  by  French  republicans,  or  monarchists,  not  one  of 
whom  is  a  good  judge  in  this  matter,  until  the  passions  have 
ceased,  and  history,  with  mature  reflection,  passes  sentence  ; 
for  Louis  Philippe  feared  not  the  attempts  of  the  French  people 
against  his  life,  so  much  as  those  who  encircled  him.  The  min- 
isters of  the  king  of  the  French  were  watching  in  their  stir- 
rups, and  foresaw  that  the  people  would  not  much  relish  the 
favoritism  that  hurled  from  the  throne  the  best  of  monarchs ; 
and  consequently  every  sign  of  popular  vengeance  against  the 
great  set  them  upon  thorns.  The  perfumed  de  Vieux  had  been 
attached  to  the  embassy  in  London,  secretary  to  that  of  Vienna, 
which  was  no  bad  school  of  espionnage,  and  had  filled  other 
diplomatic  posts,  which  gave  him  a  character  of  more  than  com- 
mon importance,  and  which  commanded  respect.  With  these 
antecedents  he  presented  himself  to  the  Grand  Prefet. 

—  What  .novelty  brings  the  noble  Baron  de  Vieux  to  these 
halls,  honoring  me  with  his  esteemed  presence  ? 

—  M.  le  Prefet,  I  have  just  come  from  my  estates  at  Ser- 
gines,  which  I  inherited   a  short  time  since,  on   the  decease  of 
my  aunt,  and  the  repairs   of  which  I  wished  to   urge  forward, 
for  the  good  lady  had  abandoned  them  on  account   of  her  age, 
and  in  an  excursion  to  Nogent  de   la  Seine,   I  perceived  that 
the  police  did  not  execute  its  commission  as   circumstances  re- 
quire, as  the  dangers  around  us  demand,  as  the  increase  of  ul- 
tra-liberal ideas  exacts  ;   and   I  take  the  liberty  of  manifesting 
my  fears   to    the  first  magistrate   in  these  matters.     I   would 
have  seen  his  majesty  in  person,  but  I  wished  that  the  glory  of 
the  discovery  should  fall  on  one  of  my  best  friends,  the  zealous 
Prp.frt  of  Paris 


THE  RUIXS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  \  15 

Both  made  that  favorite  motion  of  courtiers,  used  by  them 
when  they  mutually  flatter  and  deceive  each  other. 

—  And  what  may  be  the  matter  in  question,  noble  Baron  1 

—  A  machine  a  hundred   times  more  infernal  than  that  of 
the  regicide  Fieschi. 

—  How  so  ? 

—  It  is  necessary  I  should   explain  to  my  noble  friend,  M. 
le   Pn'fet,  what,  by  one  of  those   chances  we  men   call  Provi- 
dence, I  have  seen.     Towards   the  southwest  of  Nogent  are  the 
ruins  of  the  Paraclete  .... 

—  Ah  !  yes,  if  the  noble  Baron  de  Vieux  will  permit  me  to 
interrupt  him,  I  believe,  and  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  that  there 
lives  there  an  old  original,  a  German,  a  physician,  and  a  vision- 
ary. 

—  Precisely,  a  German,  a  physician,  very  learned,  and  .  .  . 
revolutionary. 

—  The  information  I  have  is  not  of  that  nature,  M.  le  Baron, 
and  I  am  surprised  .... 

—  It  is  not  strange,  for  his  ability  is  diabolical.     I  will  ex- 
plain myself.     M.    le  Prefet  knows,  without  doubt,   the  illus- 
trious Count  de  Kant,  my  friend. 

The  magistrate  inclined  his  person  ceremoniously. 

—  He  and  I  being  at  Nogent,  they  told  us,  that  is,  we  heard 
the  people  talk  of  the  sorcerer  of  the  ruins  ;  and  the  peculiarity 
of  living  there,  joined  to  the  antiquarian  interest  of  the  memory 
of  Abelard,  made  us  decide  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  spot,  to  see  if 
the  people  with  their  stupidity  were  again  giving  importance  to 
a  mere  whimsicality.     To  be  brief,  we  arrived,  and  after  being 
received   by  an  assassin,  who  wore  a  picture  representing  the 
Spanish  gallows,  from  which  he  said  the  German  had  delivered 
him,   Schmidt,  which  is  his   name,   came   to  meet  us.     At  the 
first  glance  Kant  recognized  in  him  a  shoemaker,  or  some  coach- 
man or  lackey  of  his  ;  and  as  our  ascendency  over  the  plebeians, 
emanating  from  divinity,  will  never  be  unrecognized,  the  said 
sorcerer   acceded  to   all  the    demands    of  his    former  master. 


1 16  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

From  what  I  beard  from  his  own  lips,  from  what  I  saw  in  those 
caverns,  this  man  is  another  philosopher  of  Geneva,  another 
lackey  Rousseau,  another  Upsetter  of  the  people.  Accord- 
ing to  appearances,  he  holds  nocturnal  assemblies,  and  M.  lo 
Prefet  will  conceive  the  facility  with  which  the  malefactors  can 
assemble,  travelling  from  Paris  and  more  distant  points  by  the 
Seine.  Here  there  are  machines  of  unknown  purpose  and  small 
bulk.  There  are  men  working,  to  judge  from  the  noise  of  the 
subterranean  workshops,  besides  women,  prostitutes  :  and.  in  fine, 
it  is  a  cave  of  Montesinos,  with  the  modern  civili/ation  and 
wickedness.  Passing  by  a  vault,  Kant  saw  and  pointed  out  to 
me  a  gallows,  and  the  effigies  of  a  king,  a  noble,  and  a  priest. 
M.  le  Prefet  can  see  that  this  is  no  laboratory  of  a  physician. 
that  what  I  have  described  indicates  not  the  least  connection 
with  such  an  occupation.  I  might  have  known  more,  but  in- 
dignation overcame  me.  and  in  one  of  those  movements  which 
our  souls  experience,  I  used  some  harsh  expressions  towards 
him,  to  which  he  replied  in  the  following  words :  a  He  who 
takes  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword,  and  the  great 
of  the  earth  have  done  much  to  us  to  make  the  people  retal- 
iate upon  them."  These  were  his  last  words,  and  they  admit  of 
no  explanation.  It  is  nothing  strange,  then,  that  to  drive  off 
the  rough  country  people,  he  presents  himself  to  them  as  a 
sorcerer,  as  a  son  of  Satan,  so  as  to  keep  the  road  clear  for 
his  initiated.  What  I  can  insure  is,  that  hence  will  spring  a 
revolution,  and  chiefs  like  Robespierre  and  Marat. 

After  this  relation,  of  the  truth  of  which  our  readers  can 
judge,  they  conferred  together  upon  the  subject,  and  the  Prefet 
congratulated  himself  on  being  the  saviour  of  the  French  aristo- 
cracy, thanks  to  the  zeal  of  the  noble  de  Vieux,  which  doubtless 
he  would  have  turned  to  account  some  other  way,  if  the  magis- 
trate had  hesitated  about  his  part  in  the  matter.  They  se- 
parated, and  the  Prefet  dared  not  neglect  the  institution  of 
inquiries,  because  the  Baron  was  to  be  feared  as  a  friend  and 
was  terrible  as  an  enemy. 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  \\f 

On  the  night  following  the  relation  of  Jose  Feliu,  the  dwell- 
ers in  the  vaults  of  the  Paraclete  were  assembled,  discussing  the 
artless  but  interesting  narrative  of  the  Catalonian's  sorrows,  and 
begging  him  to  continue  the  reading  of  it.  It  was  ten  o'clock 
at  night.  The  solitude  of  ruins,  even  though  they  may  contain 
some  living  inhabitants,  has  always  that  majestic  void  which 
assimilates  them  to  the  other  world.  Just  as  Feliu  was  about 
to  accede  to  their  reiterated  request,  a  whistle  was  heard  which 
resounded  through  the  vaults  like  a  thing  not  unknown,  but  of 
strange  omen.  Schmidt  hastened  towards  the  entrance  of  the 
caverns  followed  by  the  faithful  dog,  by  Jose,  and  by  Hector. 
It  was  the  agent  of  police,  purveyor  to  the  German,  and 
the  sous-prefet  of  Nogeut,  who  had  been  for  some  years  the 
friend  of  the  sage.  Schmidt  suffered  an  inward  struggle  which 
was  hidden  from  observation  by  the  darkness  of  the  ravine 
in  which  they  were ;  but  he  attended  first  to  what  was  most 
important.  Under  the  excuse  of  fetching  a  light  he  caused 
Hector  to  retire,  and  made  the  two  women  leave  the  place 
where  they  were  and  betake  themselves  each  to  her  own  apart- 
ment, while  Jose  returned  with  the  lantern.  The  dog  growled, 
but  at  the  voice  of  his  master  was  heard  to  drop  down  on  the 
floor.  Feliu  speedily  returned,  and  by  the  aid  of  the  light  the 
guests  in  silence  followed  the  doctor,  the  magistrate  command- 
ing the  agent  of  police  to  remain  and  guard  the  entrance  while 
he  conversed  with  Schmidt.  M.  de  la  Guise,  as  the  magis- 
trate was  named,  had  never  set  his  foot  within  the  strange 
house  of  his  old  friend,  and  on  entering  the  dissecting  saloon  he 
could  not  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  sad  and  singular  appara- 
tus which  was  presented  to  his  eyes.  So  soon  as  the  one  had 
regained  his  tranquillity,  and  the  other  resumed  his  accustomed 
air,  the  latter  said  : 

—  M.  dc  la  Guise,  what  accident  occasions  me  the  honor  of 
a  visit  from  you  ?     For  Schmidt  to  see  a  friend  in  his  misfor- 
tunes is  prelude  of  felicity. 

—  My  dear  M.  Schmidt,  this  is  in  fact  not  a  visit  of  friend- 


TV"  /••,177/AA'V. 

ship,  it  is  rather  the  performance  of  a  duty,  which,  however,  in- 
volves nothing  disagreeable,  because  I  am  firmly  persuaded  that 
it  is  occasioned  by  some  wickedness  or  ignorance  ;  but  this  even- 
ing I  have  first  to  be  a  friend  and  then  a  magistrate. 

—  M.  de  la  Guise,  I  believe  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  inter- 
rupt you.  I  know  who  it  is  that  must  have  originated  this  step, 
which  will  cause  you  some  annoyance ;  but  the  person  who  has 
deceived  the  authorities  is  sufficiently  known  to  me  for  me  to 
expect  this  and  much  more  from  his  villainy.     M.  le  Baron  de 
Vieux  has  surprised  and   deceived  you  in  the  most  iniquitous 
manner. 

—  M.  Schmidt,  my  friend,  I  have  not  been  surprised  ;  per- 
haps the  Grand  Prefet  of  Paris  may  have  been,  by  the  person- 
age you  mention. 

—  Then  the  order  comes  from  Paris  ? 

—  From  the  Prefecture  generale  de  Police. 

—  My  friend,  for  what  concerns  myself  and  what  surrounds 
me,  I  am  tranquil ;  but  I  cannot  do  less  than  deplore  the  want 
there  is  in  France  and  in  the  world  of  a  veritable  police.     If 
the  object  of  police   is   to   preserve  good  order,  and   make   it 
respected  among  the  people  according  to  the   established  laws, 
without  neglecting  the  public  morals,  then  now  I  say  that  the 
Grand  Prefet  ought  to  begin  by  correcting  M.  de  Vieux  and 
an  infinite  number  of  his  class.     These,  my  friend,  are  they  who 
teach  the  people  immorality,  fraud,  corruption,  and  then  com- 
plain of  those  they  call  plebeians.     No  revolution  would  have 
to  be  feared,  no  political  outbreak,  if  instead  of  being  what  they 
arc,  they  were  mirrors  of  virtue.     What  do  they  want  ?     That 
the  husband  should  see  himself  outraged,  and  keep  silence  be- 
cause it  was  a  noble  who  played  with   his   honor?     That  the 
father  should  see  the  beautiful  white  lily  of  his  daughter's  inno- 
cence struck  down,  and  because   the  hurricane  which   brought 
low  the  tender  shoot  was  an  immoral  great  or  wealthy  man.  put 
a  gag  in  his  mouth  1     That   the   industrious   artisan  should  see 
his  time  and  labor  lost,  because  a  great  lord  will   not  pay  him, 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PAEA  CLETE.  \  \  9 

and  bite  his  tongue?  That  men  should  see  them,  these  stolid 
lords,  dividing  among  themselves  the  destinies,  the  wealth,  the 
money  of  the  nation,  placed  in  its  coffers  by  the  plebeians  with 
drops  of  sweat  more  numerous  than  the  centimes  those  coffers 
contain,  and  believe  themselves  born  but  to  serve  them  whose  sole 
right  is  that  derived  from  calling  themselves  great  ?  What  do 
these  seigneurs  want  ?  That  the  sage,  the  middle  class  who  live 
by  their  brains,  should  beg  a  smile  from  their  stupid  excellencies, 
who  cannot  comprehend  what  the  sage  has  thought  and  written, 
and  be  silent,  suffocating  their  highest  prerogative,  that  of  reason? 
What  would  they  1  That  the,  world  should  remain  stationary, 
and  believe  that  they  came  down  from  the  Milky  Way,  and  that 
the  plebeians  sprung  from  the  gutters  ?  M.  de  la  Guise,  France 
has  had,  and  now  has,  nobles  who  deserve  that  name ;  many  are 
immortal,  all  the  nations  have  had  such  ;  but  the  generality  are 
hateful  for  their  stupidity,  for  their  pride,  for  their  immorali- 
ties. And  let  them  not  complain  of  revolutions,  for  their  con- 
duct foments  them,  their  arrogance  incites  them,  their  ambition 
makes  them  break  forth.  And  if  I  speak  thus  of  the  rich  and 
nobles  in  general,  it  is  because  I  know  them.  My  friend,  in 
these  ruins,  which  I  owe  to  your  friendship,  I  was  quiet,  and  if 
I  plunged  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  there  would  these  mon- 
sters come  to  torture  me.  Oh  !  for  sixteen  years  I  had  suf- 
fered by  their  iniquities,  and  the  sciences,  study,  death  to  the 
world  of  men  would  have  been  a  palliative,  if  my  sufferings 
could  find  any ;  and  even  here  in  these  caverns,  buried  alive, 
has  this  monster  come,  this  demon  of  destruction,  who  has  killed 
my  illusions,  who  has  lacerated  my  heart,  who  has  overturned 
my  powers.  .  .  .  Oh  !  if  you  knew  what  I  suffer  through  him  ! 
Look  at  this  skeleton,  it  is  that  of  my  poor  wife  ;  he  was 
her  assassin ;  this  other  is  that  of  my  daughter,  he  was  the 

cause  of  this  little  angel's  death Oh  ! — Schmidt  clenched 

his  fist — oh  !  and  even  buried  alive,  turned  to  a  wild  beast,  even 
buried  alive,  you  come  to  disturb  my  ashes? 

The  exaltation   of  the   sage,  his  tears,  and   the  skeletons  of 


120  THE  TWO  FAT11EU*. 

his  wife  and  daughter,  made  a  very  deep  impression  on  the  en- 
lightened sous-prefet,  and  after  seeking  to  console  him  by  a 
few  words  of  friendship,  he  asked  him  : 

—  And  who  is  the  Count  de  Kant  ?  did  you  know  him  be- 
fore? 

—  Kant  ?  yes,  Monsieur,  he  is  the  friend  of  my  infancy  and 
childhood ;   Kant  is  my  college  companion,  Kant  is  a  gentle- 
man, Kant  can  tell  what  this  wretch  has  seen  here.     M.  de  la 
Guise,  if  being  born  with  escutcheons  on  the  door  of  one's  house 
is  any  thing  in  the  eyes  of  the  Justice  of  this  earth,  when  I  was 
born  I  found  those  of  honesty  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  the 
husbandmen  that  were  my  parents,  and  afterwards,  seeing  the 
people  suffer  so  much,  I  gloried  in  my  class,  because  the  higher 
is  from  its  conduct  so  unworthy  of  my  sympathies ;  and  I  am  a 
plebeian,  I  am  one  of  the  people ;  I  love  this  poor  class  which 
suffers,  weeps,  breaks  its  heart,  and  dies  in  the  degradation  to 
which  the  ignorant  great  and  rich,  have  condemned  it. 

—  Well.  M.  Schmidt,  do  not  grow  warm:   I  have  always  be- 
lieved that  the  accusation  deposited  against  you  was  the  effect 
of  anger  or  ignorance.     I  have  fulfilled   my  mission  of  friend- 
ship, now  I  have  to  speak  as  a  magistrate.     In  three  days  I 
shall  come  to  make  a  visitation  to  the  vaults  with  the  appara- 
tus of  justice  ;  if  perchance  you  have  any  thing  that 

—  Thanks,  my  friend,  thanks ;  my  machines  are  the  bones 
of  men  which  I  study,  my  instruments  human  vitals,  that  I  en- 
deavor to  make   myself  acquainted  with ;    my  secrets   those   of 
science ;  my  mysteries  those  which  God  has  consigned  to  men 
to  be  the   theme   of  their  interminable  disputes,  incapable  as 
they  are  of  penetrating  such  arcana. 

—  Then,  my  friend,  in  three  days  your  innocence  will  shine 
forth  like  the  rays  of  the  sun  at  noonday,  the  hour  at  which  I 
shall  come  to  make  patent  your  heroism  in  having  buried  your- 
self in  these  ruins. 

The  noble-hearted  magistrate  has  no  sooner  gone  than  the 
countenance  of  Schmidt  changes,  and  instead  of  sleeping  he  re- 
flects. Let  us  pass  on  at  once  to  the  following  morning. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THERE  are  some  mornings  in  the  height  of  summer,  when  it 
seems  as  though  God  were  walking  forth  reviewing  his  creation, 
and  rejoicing  a  second  time  in  beholding  so  marvellous  a  work. 
The  sun  shines  as  if  he  were  taking  delight  in  showing  that  age 
but  adds  to  his  splendor,  and  he  repeatedly  caresses  each  object 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  kissing  with  lips  of  love  that  which 
with  his  ardors  he  vivifies.  The  wind  is  fresh  and  mild,  and 
seems  to  be  the  same  being  which  God  formed,  and  set  upon 
the  back  of  a  cherubim  to  fly  through  space.  The  flowers  will 
not  permit  themselves  to  have  been  created  for  the  pomp  of 
the  fields  and  the  embalming  of  the  atmosphere  in  vain ;  they 
exhale  their  perfumes,  so  that  the  morning  breeze,  playing  with 
them,  forms  aromatic  clouds  around  the  globe,  making  it  repeat 
to  the  Maker  that  all  which  came  from  his  hands  is  good.  The 
birds  chirping,  twittering,  and  making  harmonious  modulations, 
sing  hymns  of  praise  to  Him  who  ploughs  through  space  upon 
a  cloud.  The  silence  of  nature  in  these  hours  is  the  homage  of 
admiration  infused  by  the  presence  of  Him  who  animated  all 
by  an  omnipotent  breath.  The  streams  murmur  softly,  the 
cascades  with  leaps  of  joy,  the  rivers  with  placid  flow,  the  seas 
with  dimpled  and  tranquil  waves.  The  countless  leaves  of  the 
forest  whisper  their  loves ;  wild  beasts  retire,  fearing  the  Good- 
ness which  looks  at  them  with  irate  countenance  :  the  birds 
are  frisking  in  the  bowery  trees  ;  the  innocent  beasts  in  the 
fat  meadows.  Man,  if  in  these  hours  he  treads  his  earth, 
feels  his  lungs  expand,  longs  to  respire  with  double  throat,  has 
more  life  in  his  life,  is  filled 'with  joy,  and  perchance  blesses  the 


122  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

infinite  power  of  Him  who  made  him  lord  of  such  marvels.  It 
is  one  of  these  mornings,  and  the  ruins  of  the  Paraclete,  although 
they  are  but  fragments  and  vestiges  of  what  they  have  been,  are 
resonant  with  life.  The  saxifrages,  the  ivies,  the  parietarias, 
the  twining  and  climbing  plants  of  all  kinds,  as  though  ashamed 
of  being  in  ruins,  stretch  out  their  shoots  crowned  with  dew, 
spread  open  their  leaves,  and  dispute  among  themselves  for  the 
covering  of  these  ruins  with  their  luxurious  clothing  ;  the  spar- 
rows, the  swallows,  the  martens  from  the  banks  of  the  Seine, 
frisk  about  those  cages  which  nature  has  given  them  to  free 
them  from  the  snares  of  men,  and  wagging  their  little  tails, 
now  cocked  up,  now  turned  down,  they  express  with  their  chir- 
ruping the  enjoyment  they  experience.  Schmidt's  dog  stretches 
out  his  fore-paws,  inclines  his  body  forward,  pricks  up  his  ears, 
fixes  his  eyes,  and  pounces  barking  upon  a  lizard,  which  seeing 
itself  attacked,  runs  off,  insinuates  itself  into  its  nest,  and,  in 
token  of  its  mockery  of  the  hunter,  thrusts  out  its  eyes  and  lit- 
tle snout  through  the  hole,  wagging  its  unquiet  tongue.  Every 
thing  respires  joy,  so  that  the  raven  of  the  Paraclete,  not  wish- 
ing to  disturb  by  its  sinister  presence  this  scene  of  pleasure, 
condemns  itself  to  run  down  into  the  lowest  spots,  making 
plunges,  as  though  in  chase  of  unclean  animals,  which  are  un- 
worthy of  a  place  in  the  luxurious  chain  this  morning  dis- 
plays. Where  is  Schmidt?  What  arc  his  beloved  disciples 
doing  ?  What  are  they,  Jos£,  and  Martha,  thinking  of  the  visit 
of  the  preceding  night  ?  Do  they  know  what  has  occurred  ? 
Do  they  weep,  or  are  they  pouring  out  raging  foam  ?  Let  us 
not  respect  its  mysterious  immobility  ;  the  Paraclete  is  a  heap 
of  ruins  which  has  a  thousand  skylights ;  let  us  imitate  the 
sun,  who,  wherever  he  can  find  a  crevice,  penetrates  with  his 
light  and  illumines  the  darkness.  We  do  well  to  imitate  the 
sun,  who  at  this  moment  is  gilding  the  entrance  to  the  subter- 
ranean places.  We  have  found  Schmidt,  who  has  just  spoken 
with  much  mystery  to  the  agent-  of  police.  The  latter  has 
gone  again.  The  sage  no  longer  moves  with  grave  step ;  his 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  123 

walk  is  accelerated  ;  he  seems  to  be  "a  young  man  of  thirty 
years  ;   Jose  and  he  meet,  and  the  first  says : 

—  They  are  informed. 

—  Have  they  already  directed  their  steps  to  the  spot? 
-Yes,  Doctor? 

—  Then  follow  me,  son  Jos''. 

Before  they  arrive,  let  us  hear  what  Rosamunda  says  to 
Hector : 

—  What  can  it  be?     Can  you  imagine  what   was  the  sub- 
ject of  last  night's  interview? 

—  No,  my  Rosamunda,   no  ;  but  as  he   has   already  called 
us,  we  shall  know  soon.     How  beautiful  you  have   arisen  this 
morning ! 

The  girl  blushes  and  casts  down  her  eyes. 

—  Now  you  are  more  enchanting ;  color  gives  your  cheek  a 
celestial  glow. 

She  turns  a  deeper  color. 

—  I  never  saw  you  so  lovely  ! 

—  It  is  the  morning  that  makes  it  seem  so  to  you. 

And  Rosamunda,  being  no  longer  master  of  her  actions, 
throws  herself  into  the  arms  of  Hector,  perhaps  to  make  the 
blushes  of  her  love  fly  with  the  palpitations  of  his  heart. 

In  fact,  Rosamunda  has  this  morning  a  certain  I-know-not- 
what,  which  we  might  translate,  if  she  were  not  sixteen,  and  if 
our  readers  had  not  already  divined  that  she  is  in  the  morning 
dawn  of  her  age  of  beauty.  Clasping  each  other's  hands,  they 
are  going  to  sit  down,  when  they  hear  the  steps  of  two  persons. 
It  is  Schmidt  and  Jose.  Hector  sighs,  Rosamunda  draws  on 
each  side  of  her  enchanting  face  a  mass  of  blond  ringlets. 

The  sage  enters.  His  countenance  bears  the  marks  of  sad- 
ness and  of  desperation,  mixed  with  hope  and  a  future.  With 
tranquil  voice  he  says  to  them : 

—  Now,  my  children   of  adoption,  the  hour  is  come.     Pre- 
pare your  baggage  ;  you  will  not  be  without  the  means  of  living 
for  some  time.     I  am  poor,  but  not  so  much  so  but  that  my 


124  TUX  TWO  FATHERS. 

former  savings  have  left  me  insured  against  want.  Jose  will 
aid  you.  Now  I  am  going  out,  and  shall  not  return  till  the 
close  of  the  evening.  Have  every  thing  in  readiness  for  your 
journey.  Before  we  separate  I  will  give  you  the  counsels  that 
your  youth,  your  career,  and  your  condition  require. 

Kosamunda  falls  a-weeping,  Hector  drops  his  head,  and  the 
sage,  that  he  may  not  exhibit  proof  that  he  is  a  man,  retires 
turning  his  face  towards  them,  and  letting  fall  a  tear. 

Near  Sergines  where  de  Vieux  has  part  of  his  estates,  there 
is  a  laborer's  cottage  of  miserable  aspect.  In  the  entrance, 
under  the  shade  of  a  luxurious  vine,  at  mid-day,  an  old  hus- 
bandman is  seated,  smoking  a  clay  pipe.  His  sad  countenance, 
the  wandering  of  his  eyes,  the  distraction  which  seems  habitual 
to  him,  make  us  stop  to  contemplate  him  for  some  moments. 
Within  the  hut  a  girl  of  seventeen  is  singing,  and  doing  the 
work  belonging  to  her  sex  and  condition.  Every  strain  of  the 
girL  makes  the  old  man  pour  forth  a  mouthful  of  smoke,  and  a 
sigh.  On  one  of  the  repetitions  of  the  refrain  of  the  ditty,  the 
wind  brings  to  the  ears  of  the  ancient  these  words : 

"  Jure-le  moi  sur  ta  mere  au  tombeau " 

and  they  have  hardly  expired  in  the  air  when  he  shakes  his 
head,  puts  his  little  finger  into  the  expiring  pipe,  empties  the 
ashes,  sucks  once  or  twice,  and  says : 

—  Mary,  Mary ! 

—  Father 

—  Bring  me  the  tobacco-pouch. 

—  "Where  is  it,  father  ? 

—  By  the  rack. 

The  girl  disappears  and   returns  instantly,  with    a   small 
leathern  bag  in  her  hand. 
— •  Here  it  is,  father. 

—  Give  it  me,  Mary,  give  it  me.     This  is  one  of  those  days 
when  your  sister  used   to  get  up  laughing,   be  all  day  singing 
the  same  as  you  were  singing  just  now.  and  go  to  bed  laughing 


THE  BUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  125 

heartier  than  ever.     Poor  Martha !  she  was  the  very  picture  of 
your  mother ! 

Mary,  whose  appearance  is  ordinary,  has  an  exquisite  and 
eminent  sensibility,  and  has  hardly  heard  the  name  of  her  sis- 
ter, when  she  inclines  her  head,  and  drops  a  couple  of  tears. 
The  old  man  continues  : 

—  Where  can  the  poor  thing  be  ?    Who  would  have  thought 
Martha    would    become    possessed  ?     Do    you   remember   how 
glad  she  was  to  go  and  be  the  maid  of  my  lady  the  Baroness  ? 
I  had  been  reckoning  up  my  hopes  for  my  old  age,  thinking 
she  would  keep  this  good  place 

—  But,  father,  why  do  you  always  say  that  Martha  is  pos- 
sessed ?     Does  she  not  rather  seem  to  be  mad  ? 

—  No,  my  daughter,    don't    think    it ;    your    sisterly    love 
blinds  you,  but  my  fatherly  love  sees  things  more  clearly.      In 
the  beginning  of  her  sickness,  that  is  to  say.  when  M.  le  Baron 
left  her  in  the  castle,  because  it   was  not  possible  to  take  her 
to  Paris  in  that  state,  she   appeared  so  ;  but   afterwards,   oh  ! 
afterwards,  the  Cure  of  Sergines  undeceived  me,  showing  me 
how  the  exorcisms  made  her  furious.     Many  times  my  lord,  the 
Baron,  has  told  me  of  the   rage  Martha  had  against  him,  such 
rage  that  one   cannot  believe   it  could  come   from  any  where 
but  the  old  enemy. 

—  So  good  as  my  lord  is  !     Do  you  remember  a  fortnight 
ago  when  he  was  here,  he  gave  me  while  you  were  in  the  field 
two  louis-d'or  ? 

—  Yes,  my  daughter,  he  has  always  been  generous  to  me 
and  my  children. 

—  I'll  bet  you  don't  know  what  he  said  to  me. 

—  What  did  he  say  to  you  ? 

—  Why, he  patted  my  chin,  and  said,  ;'  Now  don't  go 

and  hate  me,  Mary,  like  Martha  does." 

—  That  was  as  much  as  to  say,  that  these   are   the  sort  of 
injuries    he    does  to  his  tenants,  and  particularly  to   Martha, 
whom  he  loved  as  much  as  my  lady  his  aunt. 


126 

The  countryman  fills  his  pipe,  and  begins  to  puff.  The 
smoke  which  issues  does  not  let  him  see  the  color  that  had  come 
into  the  cheek  of  his  daughter  Mary  as  she  said,  "  Why,  .... 
he  patted  my  chin  .  ..." 

From  the  place  where  they  are  the  river  is  visible,  and  di- 
rectly after  the  steamboat  has  passed  they  see  coming  towards 
them  a  tall  man,  with  a  great  red  beard,  poorly  dressed.  Five 
minutes  after  he  comes  up  to  the  door  and  asks : 

—  Are  you  M.  Jules  Bonhomme? 

—  Your  servant,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? 

—  Have  you  not  a  daughter  called  Martha,  who  some  time 
ago  in  one  of  her  fits  of  madness  disappeared  from  home  ? 

The  old  man  looks  at  his  questioner,  then  at  his  daughter 
Mary,  and  says : 

—  For  my  misfortune,  sir,  I  am  the  father  of  that  poor  girl, 
whom  I  weep  for  every  moment,  and  I  had  just  now  named  her 
to  her  sister,  my  daughter  Mary,  that  you  see  beside  me. 

—  Well,  M.  Bonhomme,  if  you  will  permit  me   to  speak  a 
few  words  with  you.  you  will  do  me  a  great  favor. 

—  Say  on. 

—  I  would  be  glad  to  be  by  ourselves. 

—  Mary,  daughter,  go  while  I  talk  a  bit  with  this  gentle- 
man, and  pluck  peas  in  the  garden. 

The  girl  goes,  thinking  who  on  earth  so  odd  a  man  as  this 
can  be. 

—  Now  we  are  alone. 

—  Thank  you,  Monsieur  Bonhomme  ;  you  do  not  know  me, 
nor  do  I  know  you  except   by  hearing :  you   arc  poor.  I   also : 
you  are  father,  I  also  :  you  help  the  earth  to  yield  her  fruits.  I 
men  that  they  should  not  die  before  their  time  ;  so  that  be- 
tween us  two  there  is  much  resemblance,  as  far  indeed  as  to  be 
alike  unhappy. 

—  You  are  very  right.     And  what  do  you  want  of  me  ? 

—  First  sit   down,  then  answer  a  few  very  simple  questions 
that  I  am  going  to  ask,  and  in  the  end  we  will  see  if  I  can  give 
you  any  consolation  in  your  sorrows. 


- 
THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  \rtf 

The  countryman  takes  off  his  hat,  the  brim  of  which  being 
very  broad,  as  is  the  fashion  of  the  country  people  in  some  de- 
partments of  France,  is  bent  into  a  variety  of  shapes,  puts  his 
pipe  into  the  pocket  of  his  jacket,  rests  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
lifts  up  his  head,  and  with  open  mouth  and  eyes  sets  himself 
down  to  listen  to  the  stranger. 

—  Tell  me,  Monsieur  Bonhomme,  who  loves  his  wife  and 
children  most ;  a  duke,  a  prince,  a  king,  or  a  laborer,  a  shoe- 
maker, a  hodman?  Who  loves  them  most,  M.  le  Baron  de 
Vieux  or  you  ? 

—Who  loves  his  wife  and  children  most?  I  dare  say  my 
friend  and  master,  the  Baron  de  Vieux,  loves  his  very  much ; 

but but  I  love  mine  more,  for they  have,  cost  me 

many  tears. 

—  Well,  we  think  alike  :  answer  another  question.     If  you 
had  a  son  and  he  were  at  the  castle,  and  he  deceived  the  daugh- 
ter of  M.  le  Baron,  what  would  they  do  to  him  ? 

—  They  would  put  him  in  prison  and  then  ....  then 
they  would  guillotine  him. 

—  They  would  do  exactly  that.     And  if  a  noble  or  a  rich 
man  came  and  deceived  Mary,  that  girl  who  just  left  us,  and 
you  knew  it.  what  would  you  do   with   the  noble   or  the   rich 
man? 

—  What  would  I  do  ?     Parbleu  !  .  .  .  .  what  could  I  do  ?    I 

should  kill  him no,  no — and  the  laborer  reflects — 

I  could  do  nothing,  sir,  because  I  am  poor  :  I  should  content  my- 
self with  weeping,  for  I  am  old. 

—  Then  that  is  precisely  what  has  happened  to  Martha. 
-Eh!  what? 

-  Poor  Martha,  your  daughter,  who  is  more  beloved  by 
you  than  is  that  of  the  Baron  de  Vieux  by  her  father,  the  unhappy 
Martha,  through  your  being  poor  and  old,  has  been  a  victim  to 
the  wickedness  of  the  Baron  dc  Vieux. 

—  Don't  speak  so  loud;  don't  speak  so  loud  :  how  can  this  be? 

—  You  do  not  believe  it? 


128  77/A'  T\\'<> 

—  Why  ....  perhaps  ....  but  how  can  it  be  so  1 

—  Listen,  tell  me  what  you  would  do  if  you  were  forty  years 
old,  and  rich,  to  one  who  should  do  to  your  daughter  what  I  am 
going  to  describe.     Just  suppose,  then,  that  she  is  a  poor  inno- 
cent, that  she  has  been  dazzled  with  promises,  that  she  has  been 
deceived  with  gold,  that  she  has  been  led  to  think  it  all  in  play, 
that  she  has  been  taken  for  ladies'  maid  to  the  Baroness,  that 
she  is  made  to  drink  a  poison  which  bereaves  her  of  reason  and 
enables  them  to  do  with  her  in  that  state  whatever  is  suggested 
to  the  vile  seducer  by  brutal  caprice ;  that  they  get  tired  of  her, 
that  her  reason  is  overturned,  that  she  sees  herself  abandoned, 
that  her  father  curses  her,  that  her  family  flies  from  her,  that 
people  point  their  fingers  at  her,  that  they  believe  her  possessed 
with  a  devil ;  that  they  take  her  to  church  to  exorcise  her,  that 
from  fear  she  holds  her  tongue,  that  she  cannot  kill  her  vile 

"  corruptor,  but  that  she  has  the  heart  to  hate  him  :  would  you 
immolate  this  unhappy  being,  sacrificed  to  the  bestiality  of  the 
nobleman,  and  being  her  father  thrust  her  from  your  house  ;  and 
would  you  respect  the  nobleman  and  serve  him.  and  bring  up 
the  other  daughter  that  he  might  without  doubt  do  other  things 
as  bad  to  her,  with  no  other  reason  than  that  you  are  poor  and 
he  noble  and  rich?  This  is  just  what  happened  to  poor  Mar- 
tha. What  say  you  ? 

The  countryman  sobbing,  exclaims : 

—  And  my  poor  Martha  has  suffered  all  this  ?  and  my  dear 
daughter  has  been  treated  so  ?  and  I  am  poor  ?  and  I  am  old  ? 
and  I  can  say  nothing  ?     Where  is  my  poor  Martha  ?     Has  she 
killed  herself?  ....    Sir  !  .  .  .  .    Sir !  .  .  .  . — Bonhommc  kneels 
down,  seizes  the  hands  of  Schmidt,  and  with  broken  accent  con- 
tinues— Where  is  my  poor  daughter  ?   Oh  !  if  it  was  certain  what 
you  say  .  .  .  . — he  rises  up — although  I  am  old,  I  would  plunge 
a  knife  .  .  .  . — he  looks  round — no,  nowhere,  because  I  am  poor, 
I  am  poor 

—  Don't  weep,  my  friend,  Martha   lives.  Martha   is   quite 
well,  Martha  will  come  to-morrow. 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  29 

—  To-morrow  ?  .  .  .   Give  me  your  hands,  sir  ....  or  angel, 
give  me  your  hands,  and  where  is  she  ? 

—  In  the  house  of  a  friend  of  yours,  in  my  house. 

—  Mary  !    Mary  ! — Bonhomme    seems    mad   with  joy,  and 
continues — Martha  is  alive,  Martha  is  not  possessed,  Martha 
will  come  to-morrow. 

—  Hush  !  keep  silence  !     All  this  has  been  done  by  a  phy- 
sician ;  but  revenge  for  the  outrage  is  the  work  of  a  father. 
The  countryman  inclines  his  head,  reflects,  and  says : 

—  It's  of  no  use,  I  cannot  avenge  the  outrages  inflicted  on 
my  daughters  by  the  seigneurs  and  the  rich ;   I  am  poor,  and  if 
he  sends  me  away  from  this  place,  they  and  I  will  perish,  beg- 
ging from  door  to  door,  for  I  am   old,  and  if  they  do  not  die 
they  will  come  to  worse,  driven  to  it  by  hunger.     Sir,  the  poor 
man  always  suffers  even  in  having  children,  and  the  rich  man 
always  enjoys. 

—  Well ;   Martha  will  come  home  to-morrow,  you  must  do 
what  she  tells  you.  and  that  you  may  not  be  dependent  on  this 
savage,  take  two  thousand  francs    in  louis-d'or  ;    Martha  will 
tell  you  where  you  must  go. 

The  chaf  of  the  purse  on  the  bench  gives  Bonhomme  no 
time  either  to  throw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  stranger,  or  to 
think  of  what  has  happened  to  him ;  when  he  turns  to  look  at 

his  benefactor  and  say  to  him,  "  Heaven  bless "  the  sage 

is  not  to  be  seen  in  the  lane  which  fronts  the  cottage. 

Those  who  live  in  cities,  surrounded  with  pleasures,  do  not 
know  or  think  what  the  poor  suffer,  especially  those  of  the 
country,  through  the  villany  of  those  who  own  the  lands  culti- 
vated by  the  unhappy  husbandmen.  Even  the  miserable  po- 
pulation of  the  cities  is  ignorant  of  what  happens  to  the  hus- 
bandmen, for  the  corrupted  population  of  the  large  and  of  the 
middle-sized  towns  have  an  idea  of  what  vice  is,  of  what  money 
is  worth,  what  it  is  to  sell  and  buy  honor  and  virtue  ;  perchance 
they  themselves  are  the  abominable  instruments  of  this  fearful 
6* 


130  THE  T\VO  I'ATIlKlls. 

traffic,  horror  of  the  actual  world,  stain  upon  the  rulers,  re- 
proach of  all  humanity  ;  but  those  of  the  country,  oh  !  these 
innocents,  who  know  only  that  they  have  to  belabor  the  earth 
to  fill  the  purses  of  others, — these  innocents,  who  believe  that  a 
Seigneur  is  a  God,  and  when  he  arrives  to  take  from  them  the 
last  sheaf  of  corn  which  they  with  their  sweat  have  reaped, 
make  him  a  hundred  bows,  scrape  their  feet,  put  on  their  Sun- 
day clothes,  think  it  a  holiday, — these  innocents,  who  have  no 
other  letters  than  the  clods  they  crumble  with  the  plough,  no 
other  leaves  to  enlighten  them  than  those  of  the  trees,  no  other 
science  than  that  of  bearing  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day,  no 
other  book  than  the  sky,  which  they  look  at  at  the  rising  and 
setting  sun.  to  read  whether  its  rays  are  about  to  ripen  or  burn 
up  the  harvest,  or  whether  the  rain  is  about  to  bedew  their 
fruits  with  pearls,  or  they  are  to  be  parched  up ;  nor  other  reli- 
gion than  to  ask  God  to  suffer  them  to  make  their  sheaves  to 
lay  gold,  sweat,  fatigue,  labor,  at  the  feet  of  their  lords, — these 
poor  creatures  are  heroes.  Oh  !  what  hapless  beings  are  the 
innocent  husbandmen  !  And  can  the  rich  and  the  noble  have 
the  heart  to  enter  your  houses  to  rob  you  of  honor,  tranquillity, 
peace,  and  innocence  ?  Yes,  it  is  here  that  they  lash  them- 
selves into  the  greatest  fury ;  here  that  they  come  to  pluck 
roses  and  lilies ;  here  that  they  come  to  carry  away  fruits  and 
leave  thorns  ;  here  that  they  come  to  lay  waste  the  luxury  of 
the  country  that  possesses  more  moral  flowers  than  there  are 
colors  in  the  meadows !  Oh  !  what  hapless  beings  are  the  in- 
nocent husbandmen  !  And  do  the  rich  and  the  great  mock  at 
your  unsophisticated  simplicity  ?  Why  do  they  not  remember 
iu  treading  your  thresholds,  that  your  sons  defend  with  arms  in 
their  hands  their  fantastic  nobility  and  their  treasures  ?  Why 
do  not  they  remember  that  your  daughters  and  wives  feed  the 
insects  which  enable  those  of  the  nobles  to  clothe  themselves 
with  rich  silks  ?  Why  do  they  not  consider  that  you  purvey 
for  their  markets,  that  you  deck  out  their  tables,  that  you  per- 
fume their  saloons,  that  you  make  their  cups  reek  with  exqui- 


TEE  B  JJ2NS  OF  THJS  PARA  CLETE.  \  3  \ 

site  nectars,  that  you  spin  the  thread  converted  also  by  the 
people  into  fine  clothing,  that  their  skin  may  be  delicately  de- 
fended ?  Why  do  they  not  consider  that  you  deprive  your- 
selves of  the  best  of  every  thing  to  offer  it  to  them  ?  that  you 
select  your  most  exquisite  productions  wherewith  to  do  them 
homage  ?  Oh  !  how  unhappy  are  the  poor  husbandmen  !  And 
why  do  you,  great  and  rich,  mock  at  their  innocence  ?  Why 
do  you  trample  on  their  innocent  daughters  ?  Why  do  you 
not  respect  the  moral  freshness  of  their  wives  ?  Why  ?  Be- 
cause you  are  accustomed  to  this  for  many  centuries  ?  And 
do  you  not  know  that  he  icho  takes  the  sword  shall  perish  by 
tlie  sword  ?  Do  you  believe  that  this  dependence  will  last  for 
ever  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  the  religion  of  Christ,  of  the  car- 
penter's son,  will  not  illuminate  them,  and  notwithstanding  the 
fascination  your  clergy  exercises  over  them,  that  it  will  not 
make  them  know  that  we  are  all  brethren,  and  that  their  origin 
is  as  noble  as  yours?  Do  you  natter  yourselves  that  these 
arms  which  defend  your  riches  and  palaces  can  never  be  con- 
verted into  instruments  of  popular  glory,  of  equality,  of  inde- 
pendence ?  Do  you  think  that  the  sons  of  the  husbandman 
Noah  will  not  very  soon  know  that  they  are  descendants  of  his 
three  sons,  who  were  equal  to  their  father,  and  that  only  vice 
unlevels  this  equality?  Why,  will  not  your  vices  unlevel  it, 
and  the  saying  of  the  Gospel  be  verified,  that  those  who  are  last 
shall  be  first,  and  that  the  first  shall  be  last  ? .  Ye  noble  and 
rich !  priests  and  savans !  think  well  on  what  you  are  doing, 
afflict  not  with  wickednesses  those  who  maintain  your  luxury, 
those  who  fill  your  coffers  with  gold.  Behold  !  the  blind  will 
change  his  darkness  into  light  the  moment  there  is  any  one  to 
open  his  eyes.  Oh  !  how  worthy  of  compassion  are  the  poor 
innocent  husbandmen  !  In  the  intense  heats  of  August  they 
thresh  out  their  corn  all  day  long ;  in  the  frosts  of  winter  they 
chop  their  wood ;  in  the  rains  of  spring  they  prune  the  trees ; 
in  seed  time  they  sow,  in  the  winds  of  autumn  they  reap  and 
fill  your  stores  with  richest  fruits ;  and  when  they  return  to 


132  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

their  houses  dragging  the  rake,  or  with  the  spade  on  their 
shoulders,  drenched  with  rain  or  shivering  with  cold,  the  poor 
enjoy  no  other  felicity  than  looking  on  their  wives,  talking  of 
their  work,  caressing  their  offspring,  on  whom  they  calculate 
for  the  future,  admiring  the  ruddy  cheeks  of  their  daughters, 
who  have  been  working  like  themselves,  and  will  work  all  their 
lives,  and  after  a  frugal  supper,  in  which  perhaps  they  thank 
and  praise  the  landlord  of  their  farms,  who  has  condescended  to 
visit  them  to  carry  off  all  the  sweat  of  the  toiler,  they  go  to 
bed,  they  sleep,  for  they  are  flesh  and  blood,  and  are  fatigued 
with  their  labor ;  and  perhaps  the  visit  of  the  lord  has  robbed 
them  of  the  peace  of  their  bed,  of  the  aroma  of  virtue  which  was 
respired  at  their  firesides,  and  of  the  hopes  they  had  con- 
ceived of  their  daughters.  Oh !  ye  noble  and  rich,  be  not 
cruel.  Why  embitter  these  unhappy  innocents  ?  Why  glory  in 
desolating  them,  in  humiliating  them,  in  lacerating  their  gene- 
rous hearts?  Lo!  with  the  money  you  pay  you  shall  be  paid  ! 
Look  well  to  it !  The  country  of  the  19th  century  is  not  that 
of  the  middle  ages  ;  know  that  the  fires  of  domestic  peace  may 
be  converted  into  the  flames  of  war  !  Read,  read,  and  you  will 
see  that  since  1793,  the  world  has  undergone  a  revolution,  and 
the  aristocrats  are  crest-fallen;  and  in  1850,  the  rich  already 
begin  to  dread  the  socialist  demagogues.  Do  not  exacerbate 
the  poor  ;  respect  them,  love  them,  and  you  will  see  how  little 
these  evil  socialist  seeds  will  germinate,  for  how  will  the  people 
rise  against  those  who  treat  them  as  children  ?  How  will  they 
injure  those  who  heap  them  with  benefits  ?  Of  what  can  the 
demagogues  make  a  handle  to  sow  enmity  between  the  country 
and  the  cities,  between  the  workshops  and  the  palaces  or  man- 
sions of  the  powerful,  if  you  are  objects  of  gratitude  ?  Ye  noble 
and  rich  !  look  to  your  own  interests,  and  convert  your  haughty 
manners,  your  vaporing  pride,  your  thirst  of  gold  and  pleasures, 
into  benignity  towards  the  poor  and  plebeian,  into  mansuetude, 
into  magnanimous  disinterestedness,  into  just  and  pure  enjoy- 
ments. Consider  that  it  is  better  to  be  humane  towards  the 


THE  B UINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  1 33 

people,  for  they  are  more  grateful  than  the  opulent,  and  you 
need  not  fear  the  apostles  of  robbery,  who  cover  themselves 
with  the  veil  of  compassion  towards  the  masses,  while  their  only 
object  is  to  take  what  belongs  to  you.  Consider  that  the  turn 
of  the  people  may  come  to  act  upon  the  lessons  you  have  taught 
them.  He  who  takes  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword. 
Look,  ye  great  and  rich  !  the  people  in  1851  make  a  question 
not  only  of  eating  and  drinking,  they  wish  to  be  enfranchised, 
and  afterwards  to  form  themselves  into  an  independent  estate, 
and  then,  alas  for  the  rich  !  it  will  be  for  them  as  it  is  now  for 
the  titled.  Behold  !  the  clergy  no  longer  possess  any  thing  ; 
see  !  titles,  and  first  fruits,  and  seignoralties  are  all  over  ;  see  ! 
individual  property  has  made  much  increase  with  the  revolu- 
tions ;  see !  there  occur  no  more  devises  of  land  to  the  monas- 
teries ;  see  !  every  one  of  the  sons  of  the  people  begins  to  say  : 
-  This,  which  appertained  to  the  count,  the  marquis,  or  the 
clergy,  is  mine.  Consider  that  property,  however  little,  makes 
men  independent ;  that  ignorance  is  beginning  to  disappear, 
that  more  than  will  serve  your  turn  can  be  taught  the  people 
in  very  few  years.  Be  then  charitable,  kind,  brothers  to  all 
men,  that,  in  the  time  of  revolt,  you  may  be  reckoned  as  such. 

In  this  manner,  or  some  other  very  similar,  Schmidt  dis- 
courses, reascending  the  Seine. 

It  is  6  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Paraclete  are  uneasy  at  not  seeing  their  protector  return,  for 
he  had  gone  out  before  5  o'clock  in  the  morning.  To  form  an 
approximative  idea  of  the  state  of  mind  in  which  the  two  young 
people,  Jose  and  Martha,  find  themselves,  it  will  be  sufiicient  to 
put  ourselves  in  their  places,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  circum- 
.  stances  which  surround  them.  At  this  hour  they  have  all  as- 
sembled in  the  eastern  part  of  the  ruins,  their  gaze  fixed  on  the 
path  which  leads  from  the  river  beyond  Nogent  to  tRe  Para- 
clete. How  different  are  their  countenances  !  The  utterance  of 


1 3 4  THE  TWO  FA TIIERS. 

each  one's  soul  is  legible  through  the  anxiety  depicted  on  their 
features.  Jose  is  waiting,  simply  waiting  ;  Martha  is  anxious 
to  know  something  that  touches  her  soul ;  Hector  fears  lest  he 
may  have  lost  his  protector  ;  the  interesting  Rosamunda  is 
agitated  with  emotions  as  many  as  the  waves  formed  by  her 
blond  ringlets,  agitated  by  the  gentle  evening  zephyrs  :  and 
after  searching  the  horizon,  she  sets  her  celestial  eyes  on  the  hea- 
vens, as  though  trusting  only  in  them.  All  are  wrapped  in  the 
expectation  of  seeing  the  arrival  of  him  who  is,  so  to  speak,  the 
life  of  tho'se  anxious  ones.  Breaking  the  silence  which  they 
have  for  some  time  preserved,  Hector  says  : 

—  Jose,  do  you  not  know  where  the  doctor  has  gone  ? 
This  question  reminds   the  listeners  where   they  are,  and 

three  deep  respirations  are  heard.  Jose  takes  his  eyes  from 
the  path,  and  turning  them  towards  the  youth,  replies  : 

—  Who  can  know  that  ?     He  is  so  pensive  .... 

One  of  the  four  knows  more  or  less  whither  Schmidt  has 
gone,  or  imagines  so,  and  on  hearing  Jose,  Martha  says : 

—  Perhaps  he  will  not  be  long. 

—  Why  do  you  say  so,  Martha  ? 

—  Because  ....  because  the  night  is  already  coming  on. 

—  And  if  any  misfortune  should  have  happened  to  him,  or 
the  melancholy  which  possesses  him  should  have  .... 

Rosamunda  till  now  has  not  opened  her  lips  ;  but  the  re- 
ticence of  Hector,  united  to  the  word  misfortune,  makes  her 
burst  out  into  a 

—  No,  no  ;   nothing  can  happen  to  him,  he  is  too  good  for 
God  to  leave  him  unprotected. 

The  eyes  of  the  sentimental  French  girl  have  fixed  them- 
selves on  those  of  Hector,  as  though  seeking  to  discover  whe- 
ther she  has  deceived  herself.  All  sink  again  into  silence. 
The  sun  oscillates  between  the  mountains  of  the  west,  and  na- 
ture clothes  herself  in  that  pensive  raiment  lent  her  by  the  ap- 
proach«of  darkness,  whose  influence  is  shared  by  our  heart 
whenever  upon  rising  ground  we  are  surprised  by  night.  This 


THE  RUISS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  135 

is  the  most  august  of  the  hours.  Well  says  Ugo  Foscolo,  that 
the  close  of  evening,  seen  from  flowery  eminences,  is  a  fruitful 
subject  for  the  artist's  pencil,  and  it  might  be  added,  that  it  is 
no  less  so  for  the  pen  of  the  moralist  ;  for  the  soul  deprived  of 
the  beauties  of  the  exterior  world,  wraps  herself  in  a  melan- 
choly nonchalance,  which  reveals  the  jealousy  with  which  she  is 
inspired,  at  not  being  able  to  enjoy  the  mysteries  of  the  globe 
in  those  hours  in  which  it  is  overspread  by  the  breath  of  sleep. 
Those  of  the  Paraclete  feel  this  melancholy  pushed  to  its 
highest  degree,  by  the  somewhat  strange  absence  of  their  com- 
mon father  ;  but  all  give  a  start  of  surprise,  the  features  of  all 
become  animated,  a  thousand  emotions  traverse  their  counte- 
nances, when,  blended  with  the  last  chirp  of  the  birds,  and  the 
sound  of  the  bells  on  the  cattle,  they  hear  a  whistle ;  it  is 
Schmidt,  who  has  just  made  use  of  it  to  announce  to  them  his 
presence  in  the  entrance  to  the  ruins.  Some  minutes  after  he 
sees  himself  surrounded  by  them,  and  rejoices  in  the  pleasure 
which  those  only  know,  who,  imitating  Providence,  receive  the 
homage  of  grateful  affection  from  those  who  love  them,  and 
look  up  to  them  as  to  a  second  God  upon  the  earth.  The  coun- 
tenance of  Schmidt  is  at  this  moment  like  those  hours  of  cer- 
tain days  in  spring,  in  which  the  sun  shines  for  a  moment  with 
resplendent  majesty,  and  is  then  obscured  by  the  clouds  which 
cross  the  sky,  and  leave  but  pallid  rays  upon  the  earth.  The 
manifestations  of  his  adopted  children  make  his  forehead  di- 
late, while  their  position  causes  his  forehead  to  become  arched. 
He  takes  Martha  aside,  and  says  in  her  ear  : 

—  At  12  oclock  at  night,  my  daughter,  you  will  go  down  to 
seek  your  father  and  sister,  and  then  I  will  tell  you  what  line 
of  conduct  you  ought  to  follow. 

•Then  he  asks  if  all  is  ready.  Upon  their  making  an  affirm- 
ative sign,  he  intimates  that  it  is  the  hour  for  dinner,  and  that 
afterwards  he  has  to  speak  with  them  of  matters  of  deep  inter- 
est. Nothing  which  can  reveal  his  emotion  is  discovered  at  the 
table,  it  is  only  to  be  seen  that  the  soul  of  the  sage  is  in  one  of 


1 36  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

those  solemn  crises  in  which  the  intensity  of  its  action  engages 
the  highest  powers,  giving  him  a  meditative  air.  The  frugal 
meal  finished,  they  repair  to  the  chemical  laboratory,  where  the 
four  wait  for  Schmidt,  who  has  disappeared  for  some  minutes. 

The  souls  of  some  privileged  beings  are  altogether  different- 
ly constituted  from  those  of  the  vulgar.  The  physician  who 
figures  here  had  been  educated  in  his  youth  by  religious  per- 
sons ;  his  profession  had  further  confirmed  him  in  the  faith  of 
an  Omnipotent  God.  With  the  scalpel  in  his  hands  he  had 
witnessed  the  wondrous  works  of  the  incomprehensible  Maker, 
and  bowed  his  head  at  the  sight  of  his  own  littleness.  To  be 
penetrated  with  the  infinite  wisdom  of  God,  it  will  be  sufficient 
for  man  to  look  at  the  animal  creation.  Spinoza,  Voltaire,  and 
Rousseau,  were  atheists  from  ostentatious  pride,  not  from  inti- 
mate conviction.  There  are  few  men,  who,  with  sincerity,  dis- 
avow the  power  of  the  Supreme  Maker.  Men  in  general  see 
themselves  so  little,  that  they  must  perforce  render  tribute  to 
an  Extraordinary  Being,  unknown  in  Himself,  but  manifest  in 
his  marvellous  operations.  If  any  one  is  more  than  others  in 
duty  bound  to  worship  God,  the  prerogative  belongs  to  the 
physician.  The  ignorant  are  atheists  because  ignorance  is  the 
monster  of  monsters.  Schmidt  has  all  his  life  recognised  the 
hand  of  God  in  all  that  he  has  examined  ;  and  whenever  his 
science  has  lost  itself  in  that  labyrinth  of  wonders,  the  body 
and  soul  of  man,  he  has  uttered  exclamations  which  were  a 
veritable  hymn  of  praise  to  the  Fabricator  of  Nature.  The 
goodness,  the  wisdom,  the  arrangement,  the  inexplicable  har- 
mony of  the  parts,  the  beauty  of  the  whole,  his  own  impotence 
in  penetrating  so  great  mysteries,  have  been  luminous  pages, 
reminding  the  sage  that  the  wisdom  of  the  world  is  foolishness 
in  the  eyes  of  God ;  and  thence  it  has  happened  that  Schmidt 
sees  always  this  world-watchfulness  of  the  Supreme  Being  in 
all  created  things. 

After  dinner  he  retires  to  reflect  alone  on  what  is  taking 
place,  and  he  begins  to  discourse  in  this  wise  : 


THE  R UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  37 

—  What  prayer  can  I  now  utter  more  apt  than — "  Our 
Father?"  To  whom  should  I,  a  poor  old  man,  have  recourse  in 
the  conflict  in  which  I  find  myself?  Hector  and  Rosamunda 
are  my  children  of  adoption ;  in  them  had  I  reckoned  the  glory 
of  my  old  age ;  they  were  to  have  closed  the  eyes  of  my  poor 
body  ;  it  was  a  consolation  after  the  loss  of  the  wife  and  daugh- 
ter of  my  body,  to  be  able  to  expect  on  my  death-bed  the  ten- 
derness of  the  children  of  my  spirit ;  but  not  even  this  plea- 
sure, oh,  God  !  nor  this  hope  !  "  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth 
even  as  in  heaven."  I  am  but  an  atom  of  thy  existence,  why 
should  I  wish  to  alienate  myself  from  thy  will  ?  "  It  is  hard 
to  kick  against  the  pricks."  In  heaven,  on  earth,  in  hell,  in  the 
recesses  of  the  human  heart,  there  art  Thou  as  prime  mover, 
and  there  is  thy  will  done.  To  conform  myself  to  it  is  but  to 
confess  my  dependence  on  Thee.  Thou  hast  foreseen  all  my 
steps,  my  sufferings,  the  atoms  of  my  existence  ;  without  Thee 
nothing  is  done  ;  why  should  I  wish  to  fly  from  that  which 
Thou  hast  marked  out  in  the  rotation  of  my  days  ?  Oh  !  to 
love  and  to  adore  is  to  conform  oneself  to  the  will  of  the  being 
loved.  Well,  then,  I  love  Thee,  I  adore  Thee.  ':  Thy  will  be 
done  on  earth  as  it  is  done  in  heaven."  They  will  go  away  this 
night ;  I  shall  not  see  them  again,  who  knows  for  how  long  ?  I 
shall  lose  from  my  sight  the  eyes  of  Rosamunda,  which  are  the 
picture  of  those  of  Wilhelmina.  I  shall  for  ever  lose  the  ex- 
pressive face  of  Hector,  that  face  which  represents  my  youth  ; 
I  shall  lose  it  all.  God  of  Mercy !  Might  of  Mights  !  I  am 
weak  ;  but  shine  upon  me,  as  the  sun  upon  the  plant  laid  low 
by  the  hurricane,  and  I  shall  lift  up  my  head  full  of  strength 
....  Oh  !  Thou  demandest  of  me  one  thing  ..."  Forgive 
us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors."  I  forgive  my  debtors  ; 
I  forgive  them,  0  Lord  !  They  are  molecules  of  Thy  exist- 
ence, which  have  gone  astray  ;  they  are  atoms  like  myself, 
which  have  not  chosen  to  follow  the  impulse  of  Thy  will ;  but 
in  the  end  they  will  flow  back  to  Thee,  Immeasurable  Ocean  ! — 
these  little  streams,  turned  out  of  their  course  on  the  steep  de- 


138  THE  TWO 

clivity  of  the  mountains — and  mingled  in  Thy  waters,  will  swell 
with  me  the  sea  of  Thy  greatness.  And  what  would  become  of 
me  if  I  did  not  pardon  them  ?  On  falling  into  the  great  arch  of 
Eternity,  I  should  go  floating  and  insulated,  without  any  one 
with  whom  to  unite  myself  in  blessing  Thy  greatness  ;  and  I 
could  enjoy  nothing,  because  I  should  not  form  part  of  Thy 
will,  and  consequently,  the  mere  effort  to  be  with  Thee,  and  to 
be  accompanied  by  others,  would  be  a  hell  of  agonies.  I  for- 
give them,  and  I  will  do  thy  will. 

Before  any  other  Idea  can  assault  him  he  goes  out  in  search 
of  his  beloved  disciples ;  but  how  changed  his  countenance  ! 
Schmidt,  in  this  act,  is  sublime  as  his  ideas  are  grand.  Schmidt 
forms  part  of  the  will  of  God,  and  is  resplendent  with  the  good- 
ness respired  by  the  countenance  of  Divinity,  compassionate  to- 
wards poor  man. 

As  soon  as  he  comes  into  their  presence,  the  two  young  peo- 
ple throw  themselves  on  his  neck  with  tears  in  their  eyes. 
Schmidt  embraces  them,  and  from  the  movement  of  their  two 
heads  it  may  be  seen  that  the  breast  of  the  sage  heaves  and  falls 
convulsively,  his  compressed  sighs  forming  undulations.  For  a 
time  all  remains  in  silence,  at  the  end  of  which,  sitting  down, 
he  commences  thus : 

—  Children  of  m}-  mind  and  heart,  the  hour  is  come ;   you 
have  to  set  out  within  a  few  instants,  and  we  shall  not  see  each 
other  again,  perhaps  till  eternity. 

All  weep. 

—  I  wished  that  when  my  soul  had  to  leave  the  body  my  eyes 
might  feel  the  contact  of  your  hands,  and  that  my  soul  should 
hear  the  flood  of  tears  you  poured  out  for  him  who  was  bidding 
you  adieu  for  so  long  a  journey.     This  music  which  accompa- 
nies the  dying  in  the  solitude  of  death,  will  be  wanting  to  me. 
I  shall  die  alone — alone,  without  any  one  to  dry  up  the  dying 
tear ; — the  tears  of  all  fall  faster — but.  my  children,  there  is  a 
"Will  superior  to  all  the  desires  of  men,  and  to  which  we  ought 
to  bend  our  reason. 


THK  RUL\S  Ob'  THE  PARACLETE.  139 

—  Aud  what  is  that,  Doctor  ? 
-  That  of  God,  Hector. 

The  eyes  of  those  who  surround  the  sage  fix  themselves 
upon  his,  which  have  a  sublime  expression  of  melancholy  gran- 
deur. 

—  My  children,  we  are  all  unhappy,  but  to  all  of  us  will 
come  the  day  of  joy.  Before  bidding  each  other  adieu,  it  is  my 
duty  to  give  you  one  counsel  in  addition  to  the  many  I  have 
inculcated  on  you  during  these  last  days,  and  it  is,  that  in  the 
course  of  life  you  should  consider  that  you  are  on  a  journey, 
and  that  before  arriving  at  its  end,  you  will  meet  many  obsta- 
cles. You  will  suffer  the  death  of  all  your  good  tendencies  in- 
flicted on  you  by  men  and  their  crimes :  you  will  pass  under 
their  judgments  which  must  needs  be  of  the  worst,  when  David, 
on  the  prophet  Gad  proposing  to  him  the  three  punishments,  as 
you  may  read  in  the  2d  Book  of  Samuel,  chapter  xxiv.,  said: 
••  Let  us  fall  now  into  the  hand  of  the  Lord,  and  let  me  not  fall 
into  the  hand  of  man."  You  will  suffer  the  hell  of  their 
tongues,  of  their  envy,  of  their  appetites,  who,  in  order  to  suc- 
ceed in  their  designs,  will  not  omit  any  moral  or  even  physical 
tortures  upon  which  they  can  lay  their  hands,  or  which  their 
heads  can  devise ;  but  do  not  lose  your  vigor,  take  it  for  certain 
that  in  the  midst  of  these  horrors  you  can  make  yourselves  one 
glory,  that  of  conforming  to  the  will  of  the  Bounteous  Maker, 
and  following  His  law.  llcmember  that  neither  those  who  per- 
secute, nor  those  who  are  persecuted,  will  live  to  see  a  cen- 
tury ;  imagine  them  to  be,  as  in  fact  they  are,  the  molecules 
which  people  the  air,  and  are  visible  only  because  the  sun 
shines  upon  them,  as  men  all  exist  only  because  God  is  diffused 
through  them  ;  respect  in  yourselves  and  in  others  this  pre- 
sence, eternal  presence  of  the  Divinity,  and  whatever  injury 
may  be  done  to  you,  forget  it,  forgive  it ;  and  love  all  your  fel- 
low-creatures as  parts  of  a  compound  which  benefit  each  other, 
that  harmony  may  reign  over  all.  Observe,  my  children,  that 
man  excited  by  the  injustice  of  others  may,  in  a  moment  of  frenzy, 


140  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

hate  them ;  but  if  he  reflects  a  moment,  he  will  love  them. 
Who  could  he  more  irritated  against  men  than  God  ?  and  yet 
He  came  down  from  heaven,  He  became  man,  He  felt  what 
men  feel,  and  so  loved  them  that  He  not  only  prayed  for  them, 
exculpated  them,  forgave,  loved  them,  but  gave  even  His  life 
for  beings  so  ungrateful.  To  forgive  an  enemy  is  grand,  but 
to  love  him  is  sublime  ;  this  the  God-Man  alone  could  teach. 
All  the  philosophers  have  spoken  of  generosity  ;  but  of  love  for 
those  who  have  injured  us,  Christ  alone,  who  is  chief  over  all 
the  wise.  Be  just,  fly  from  the  paths  of  the  wicked,  do  not  ap- 
proach them,  but  love  them  because  they  are  parts  of  that 
whole  whose  head  is  God.  And  have  you  ever  seen  the  foot 
hate  the  hand,  or  the  hand  the  foot  ?  It  will,  no  doubt,  appear 
strange  to  you  all,  for  all  of  you  are  victims  of  the  bad,  that  in 
this  solemn  moment  I  should  tell  you  to  forgive  and  love  your 
enemies  ;  but  listen.  When  one  considers  what  passes  in  the 
world  he  becomes  enraged,  he  repents  having  had  any  thing  to 
do  with  men,  as  God  for  their  iniquities  repented  having  made 
them  :  he  finds  himself  weak  in  the  presence  of  so  many  ene- 
mies to  battle  with  ;  he  sinks  into  despair  on  seeing  the  poor 
despised,  persecuted,  abandoned  ;  he  is  filled  with  indignation 
in  thinking  that  the  sweat  of  the  people,  their  wives,  their 
daughters,  their  honor,  their  tranquillity,  their  dignity  as  ra- 
tional beings,  their  liberty  of  thought,  their  affections,  their 
existence,  their  present,  their  past,  their  future,  all  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  noble  and  rich,  who  do  at  will  what  they  please, 
their  crimes  remaining  unpunished  because  they  are  powerful, 
rich,  influential.  The  law  is  for  them  a  puppet  of  India-rubber 
which  they  put  into  what  form  they  like,  dress  as  they  please, 
color  according  to  their  fancy,  and  which  as  an  ultimate  conse- 
quence, they  stretch  and  stretch,  its  returning  blows  falling  on 
those  who  stand  by  looking  at  them.  Oh  !  the  unhappy  people 
are  exasperated  at  seeing  their  sons  carried  off  from  their  anus 
to  serve  not  their  country,  but  the  ambitious  aims  of  the  man- 
darins ;  the  unhappy  people  groan  heavily,  seeing  they  have  not 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PA  KA  OLETE.  \  4 1 

hands,  hours,  minutes,  strength  enough  to  meet  the  taxes  heaped 
upon  them ;  the  unhappy  people  sink  in  despair,  seeing  that 
even  the  peace  of  their  hearths  is  disturbed,  that  the  pretty 
woman,  that  the  graceful  and  virtuous  girl,  are  the  target  of  the 
magnates,  who  either  corrupt  or  kill  them ;  the  unhappy  people 
are  maddened  seeing  themselves  so  abject,  so  despised,  so  little 
respected ;  the  unhappy  people  are  in  agony,  seeing  that  even 
the  talents  of  their  children  are  food  for  the  wickedness  of  the 
vicious,  whether  in  the  theatres,  in  public  assemblies,  in  private 
houses ;  the  poor  man,  if  he  have  any  education,  weeps  bitterly, 
seeing  infinite  numbers  of  his  companions  imbruted  for  the 
want  of  it,  and  without  religion,  without  education,  without  no- 
bleness of  soul,  committing  atrocities ;  and  the  masses  in  an  ac- 
cess of  fury,  blaspheme,  rage,  seek  to  put  every  thing  to  fire 
and  sword,  and  seeing  their  impotence,  sit  down  in  the  chimney 
corner  to  weep  over  their  misfortunes.  Unhappy  people  !  Why 
is  there  no  one  to  tell  you  that  religion  in  those  moments  is 
the  best  consolation,  that  it  ennobles  you,  that  your  escutcheons 
are  the  cross  of  Christ,  emblem  of  equality ;  that  the  will  of 
God  is  that  all  men  should  be  equal  before  the  law,  and  that 
no  one  has  any  right  to  set  himself  up  in  things  civil  or  politi- 
cal, over  others ;  for  equality  in  virtue,  in  talents,  in  riches,  is 
impossible.  Why  do  not  these  demagogues  give  you  the  conso- 
lation of  true  religion,  not  of  that  which  men  have  invented  to 
frighten  you,  to  obscure  your  minds  and  drive  you  to  despair  ? 
Would  you  know  in  what  consists  all  the  religion  of  Jesus 
Christ  ?  Then  I  will  tell  it  you  in  two  words  :  "  Thy  will  be  done 
on  earth,  as  it  is  done  in  heaven."  He  who  in  all  the  events  of 
his  life  repeats  these  words  and  conforms  himself  to  their  mean- 
ing, is  a  veritable  disciple  of  the  Man-God.  Why  do  they  not 
present  to  your  mind  ideas  of  your  dignity,  that  you  may  seek 
the  rights  that  ought  to  be  conceded  you,  not  with  tumults, 
with  blood,  with  arms,  with  fire,  with  disorder,  with  pillage, 
with  barbarism  ;  but  with  reason,  with  calmness,  with  conviction 
of  your  own  grandeur?  Do  you  think  the  autocrat  of  the  Rus- 


1  42  THE  TWO  FA THERS. 

sias,  and  all  the  despots  of  the  world,  would  not  tremble  at  hear- 
ing rise  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  a  voice,  issuing  from 
the  mouth  of  six  hundred  millions  of  men.  saying,  "  Respect  in 
us  the  brethren  of  God  become  man,  and  we  will  respect  the 
authority  which  in  His  name  we  have  deposited  in  your  hands 
as  His  children  and  our  brothers?"  Oh,  yes !  this  cry  would 
sound  in  their  ears  like  the  peal  of  thunder  at  the  beginning 
of  the  storm  ;  and  they  would  hasten  to  recognize  that  the 
symptoms  of  the  tempest  were  imminent,  so  that  they  would 
hasten  to  send  the  rain  of  the  holy  liberty  of  the  Gospel  on  the 
earth.  But,  my  children,  I  have  wandered  from  my  starting 
point ;  it  matters  not  much,  my  one  object  is  to  counsel  you  to 
treasure  dearly  your  own  dignity,  to  conform  to  the  will  of  God, 
obey  the  divine  law,  submit  to  human  laws  based  upon  it,  and 
liberty  of  thought,  of  religion,  of  men.  Do  not  give  way  to  the  vile 
and  wicked  in  any  situation  of  life ;  if  you  are  poor,  ever  look 
to  Christ  who  was  always  so ;  if  you  suffer  perscution  for  being 
strictly  good,  look  at  Christ,  who  says  to  you  :  "  If  they  have 
persecuted  me,  they  will  also  persecute  you  ;  the  disciple  is  not 
greater  than  his  Lord."  If  you  live  in  penury,  conform  your- 
selves to  His  will,  and  do  not  forget  that  in  the  prayer  which 
He  taught  us  with  His  divine  lips,  He  says :  "  Forgive  us  our 
debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors."  Oh  !  how  great  a  consolation 
do  I  enjoy  as  I  pronounce  these  words !  Do  you  know  that  the 
life  of  man  is  an  agony  of  death  unless  he  forgives  his  enemies  ? 
Oh  !  my  children,  it  is  late,  but  with  God  that  word  exists  not ; 
I  recognize  that  religion  and  conformity  to  His  divine  will,  con- 
stitute felicity  to  man.  In  the  midst  of  all  sufferings,  when  you 
find  consolation  in  nothing  which  surrounds  you,  remember  what 
I  am  saying  to  you,  turn  your  eyes  to  God  and  say  to  Him  : 
"  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  even  as  it  is  done  in  heaven ;"  and 
I  can  avouch  you  that  your  breasts  will  be  filled  with  consolation. 
I  forgive  all  who  have  caused  me  sorrow  ;  I  forgive  him  who  de- 
prives me  of  the  consolation  of  dying  in  your  arms ;  I  forgive 
all  that  I  may  suffer  in  future,  occasioned  by  men  ;  and  you, 


THE  RUINS  Of  THE  PARACLETE.  143 

do  you  forgive,  Hector,  forgive  ;  Jose,  forgive ;  Martha,  forgive  ; 
Rosamunda,  daughter  of  my  soul,  forgive ;  and  look  with  your 
heavenly  eyes  on  all  who  have  done  us  ill,  that  God.  seeing  an 
angel  asking  pardon  for  them,  may  forgive  them  as  we  forgive 

our  debtors 

—  Whew!     .  ...     Whew-w-w  !  .   .  .  Whew-w-w-w ! 

Whew-w-w-w-w  !  .  .  .  Whew-w-w-w-w-w-w  !  .  .  . 

These  prolonged  whistles  cut  short  the  discourse  of  Schmidt ; 
they  are  repeated,  and  he  says : 

- —  They  have  already  come  for  you  ;  Jose,  go  and  speak 
with  Henri,  the  agent  of  police. 

He  has  hardly  finished  these  words  when  they  all  burst  into 
a  flood  of  tears,  and  the  two  young  people  fall  upon  the  neck  of 
the  aged  sage,  mingling  their  sobs  and  tears,  and  uttering 
broken  words,  which  add  to  their  feelings,  and  heighten 
the  interest  of  this  sublime  picture.  Martha  can  no  longer 
bear  her  emotion,  and  entwines  her  arms  round  the  delicious 
waist  of  Rosamunda,  crying  : 

—  And  we  shall  never  see  him  again  ! 

There  are  certain  occasions  in  which  Nature,  by  a  sympa- 
thetic act,  unrecognized  by  men,  shows  that  she  condoles  with 
their  sorrows.  This  day  had  been  warm  and  cloudy  along  the 
horizon,  although  the  sun  had  shone  with  majestic  pomp  ;  but 
from  nine  o'clock  at  night,  when  the  inhabitants  of  the  Paraclete 
began  to  weep,  the  sky  began  also  to  bedew  the  earth  with  her 
tears.  Standing  up,  the  doctor  draws  his  arm  round  the  necks 
of  the  two  young  people,  pressing  them  to  his  breast,  bedewing 
the  beautiful  head  of  Rosamunda  with  his  tears.  A  flash  of 
lightning  illumines  them,  so  that  they  can  see  each  other 
in  that  august  moment.  At  the  rebound  of  the  thunder, 
Schmidt  says : 

-  The  very  Heavens  announce  jrour  departure,   and  weep 
over  our  separation. 

Half  an  hour  after,  the  five  inhabitants  of  the  ruins  of  the 
Paraclete  sally  forth  from  the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  two  only  to 


144  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

enter  again.  Schmidt,  Hector,  and  the  agent  of  police  put 
three  trunks  on  their  shoulders ;  Jose  leads  the  way ;  Rosa- 
tnunda  goes  along  clinging  to  the  hand  of  the  doctor,  and  Mar- 
tha, tearful,  closes  the  procession.  A  flash  of  lightning  illu- 
minates the  path,  which  has  been  made  slippery  by  the  fine  rain 
that  is  falling ;  the  wind  lashes  all  their  faces,  and  resounds 
with  hollow  moan  in  the  vaults,  whistling  along  the  summits  of 
the  surrounding  mountains ;  the  tempest  is  yet  far  off,  so  that 
the  rebound  of  the  thunder  sounds  like  the  echo  of  cannon  over 
the  wide  expanse  of  the  sea.  All  is  solemn.  By  the  sudden 
flashing  of  the  sky  might  be  seen  the  despondent  countenance 
of  the  old  man,  his  large  beard  besprinkled  with  tears  and  rain  ; 
that  of  Hector  which  is  troubled,  that  of  Rosamunda  breathing 
sadness,  that  of  Martha  denoting  mingled  grief  and  hope,  that 
of  Jose,  frowning  darkly,  that  of  the  police  agent,  in  which 
anxiety  and  cupidity  sat  side  by  side.  They  walk  in  silence, 
mingling  their  chip  chap  with  that  of  the  rain,  and  Schmidt 
presses  in  his  hands  of  parchment  those  of  Rosamunda,  soft  and 
cold.  Now  they  are  near  the  town,  and  the  dogs  of  the  neigh- 
boring farm-houses  bark ;  the  rain  increases,  the  storm  ap- 
proaches, they  quicken  their  pace,  guided  now  by  Henri,  the 
agent  of  police.  Now  they  hear  the  impetuous  rushing  of  the 
river,  whose  waters  are  swollen  by  those  of  the  mountains ; 
now  they  perceive  a  little  light  in  the  midst,  now  all  is  dark- 
ness, now  all  glares  like  the  mouth  of  a  furnace.  Schmidt 
wishes  to  speak,  as  is  denoted  by  the  rigid  and  convulsive  pres- 
sure of  Rosamunda's  hand  ;  but  silence  is  necessary  for  his 
object,  and  on  this  occasion  is  at  the  same  time  a  martyrdom. 
They  arrive  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  while  Henri  talks 
aside  with  the  boatman,  the  German  sage,  in  the  midst  of  their 
stifling  sobs,  gives  them  all  his  last  counsels,  which  he  calls  his 
Will.  The  trunks  are  put  into  the  boat,  except  that  which 
Schmidt  carries,  which  is  Rosamunda's.  and  which  he  will  not 
give  up  till  they  are  embarked.  When  they  are  upon  the  ves- 
sel, he  says  in  the  car  of  Rosamunda : 


THE  XUIXS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  145 

—  In    this  portmanteau   there  are  two  hundred  and    fifty 
louis-d'or  ;  one  hundred  and  fifty  are  the  dowry  given  you  by 
your  father  Schmidt,  one  hundred  belong  to  Hector. 

—  M.  le  Docteur,  the  boat  must  put  off — says  the  agent  of 
police. 

Here  is  the  desolation  !  The  young  people  burst  into  tears, 
and  Rosamunda  kisses  the  hands  of  their  adoptive  father.  A 
flash  of  lightning  illuminates  the  scene,  and  exhibits  the  aged 
man  in  a  flood  of  tears,  imploring  the  benediction  of  Heaven 
upon  his  two  children  of  mind  and  heart. 

—  Come — says  the  hoarse   voice    of   the    master    boatman, 
— sha'n't  we  ever  have  done  ? 

Schmidt  rushes  into  the  river  with  Jose,  and  seeing  the 
barge  set  loose,  exclaims  : 

—  Perhaps  till  eternity  !  Perhaps  till  eternity !   .   .   .   . 
His  sobs  are  mingled  with  the  moanings  of  the  wind. 


CHAPTER   X. 

SOLITUDE  is  eminently  sad,  say  the  generality  of  men.  Yet  all 
that  is  solitary  does  not  inspire  this  void  in  the  heart.  What 
is  there  more  agreeable  to  the  soul  than  the  solitude  of  woods, 
of  gardens,  of  fields  ?  With  what  enchantments  are  not  those 
surrounded,  who  live  in  glens,  environed  by  smiling  hills  1 
How  delicious  is  the  silence  of  the  Virgin  forests  of  America  ! 
how  grand  the  aspect  of  its  mountains  !  How  full  of  majesty 
do  not  the  Alps,  with  their  immobility,  seem  to  us,  the  Py- 
renees, with  their  secular  bristling  crests,  trodden  only  by  the 
vulture,  the  eagle,  and  the  gray  bear  !  Who  will  describe 
the.  infinity  of  ideas  which  assault  man  when,  retired  from  the 
world,  he,  in  the  desert,  contemplates  gay  Nature  ;  who  at  one 
time  laughs,  shaking  with  delight  the  leaves  of  the  trees ;  at 
others  weeps,  the  wind  moaning  through  the  tangled  branches, 
and  the  brooks,  waterfalls,  and  torrents  murmuring  sighs ;  at 
others  grows  angry,  the  furious  hurricane  agitating  her  long 
green  hair ;  at  others  roars,  the  thunder  repeating  from  cavity 
to  cavity  the  echo  of  her  voice ;  at  others  sleeps,  with  marvel- 
lous immobility  ;  at  others  plays,  the  zephyr  making  the  heart 
leap  in  the  breast  with  bounds  of  delight ;  at  others,  persists  in 
giving  us  inimitable  concerts,  whose  singers,  spreading  their 
wings,  drive  us  to  desperation,  melodious  songs  now  receding, 
now  approaching  ;  at  others,  seeking  to  awaken  in  us  the  emo- 
tions of  a  gladiator  in  the  arena  of  the  amphitheatre,  presents 
to  us  a  wild  beast,  at  the  sight  of  which  the  whole  body  trem- 
bles ;  at  others,  as  though  mocking  at  us,  repeats  sounds  which 
say  nothing,  but  which  make  us  fancy  we  know  their  meaning, 
recalling  the  accent,  even  the  tone  of  voice  of  the  beloved  indi- 


THE  K  UINS  OF  TEE  PARA  GLETE.  \  47 

vidual  who  occupies  our  imagination  at  that  moment ;  at  others, 
fascinates  us,  making  us  believe  ourselves  on  the  margin  of  the 
sea,  hearing  the  rippling  of  the  waves ;  at  others,  seduces  us 
with  the  sound  of  an  instrument,  while  it  is  but  the  canes  which 
shake,  rocked  by  the  wind ;  at  others,  flatters  the  senses  with 
most  delicious  odors ;  at  others,  so  enchants  us,  that,  forsaking 
her,  we  rush  with  soul  and  eyes  into  the  heavens,  partly  hidden 
from  us  by  the  luxuriant,  tangling  branches,  and  we  intone  a 
hymn  which  must  surely  rise  up  the  softest  of  songs  to  the 
ears  of  the  Maker.  Oh !  how  sweet  is  solitude  to  one  who 
suffers  !  Far  from  the  tumult  of  the  mansions  of  men,  he  ad- 
judges them  all  to  be  good,  forgets  that  they  have  made  him 
unhappy.  Coming  to  commune  with  nature  so  beneficent,  he 
glorifies  God  with  open  mouth,  and  feels  all  the  beauty  which 
surrounds  him.  And  if  he  is  accompanied,  if  he  sees  beside 
him  the  heavenly  face  of  a  wife  beloved  ;  if  he  contemplates 
the  little  cheeks  of  dear  children  ;  if  loves  and  caresses,  virtue 
and  religion,  make  his  heart  palpitate,  how  delicious  is  soli- 
tude !  Oh,  the  mortal  who  finds  himself  thus,  is  not  exaspe- 
rated by  the  sight  of  triumphant  vice  and  abashed  virtue  ;  the 
man  who  is  thus  happy  does  not  sin,  does^not  envy,  does  not 
lust  for  others'  goods,  is  not  ambitious  for  gold,  knows  not  the 
torments  which  other  men  would  inflict  oji  him,  if  he  lived 
among  them  ;  his  glory  is  that  of  the  fields,  whose  ornament  is 
the  apparel  given  by  God ;  his  music  is  to  celebrate  His  won- 
ders ;  his  emotion  is  that  of  content ;  his  life  is  a  delicious 
dream,  which  passes  in  the  gardens  of  the  Creator,  whence  he 
will  fly  to  the  throne  of  the  Deity,  in  company  with  the  aromas 
of  the  flowers  of  the  desert.  Oh  !  solitude  indescribably  deli- 
cious I  The  poor,  he  who  suffers,  he  who  desires  to  taste  a 
bliss,  prelude  to  that  of  the  future,  ought  to  seek  this  enchant- 
ing solitude.  , 

But  is  the  desert 'always  so  delicious?  Is  not  the  tomb 
also  a  solitude  ?  Are  not  Pompeii  and  Herculancum  also  soli- 
tudes 1  Are  not  the  ruins  also  a  solitude  ?  Is  not  orphanage 


148  T1IE 

also  a  solitude  ?  Is  not  the  parting  from  our  friends  also 
a  solitude  ?  Oh  !  pale,  sad  solitude,  in  whose  confused 
shadows  the  heart  wanders  enveloped  in  the  night  of  all  the 
affections.  What  solitude  can  compare  with  that  of  the  home 
of  the  husband  who  has  just  seen  the  corpse  of  his  wife  pass 
out,  and  finds  a  void  in  the  bed,  witness  of  the  mysteries  of  his 
heart;  who  finds  a  void  in  the  chair  where  sat  his  beloved  :  who 
finds  a  void  in  the  walls  which  repeated  the  echo  of  her  dear 
voice  ;  who  finds  a  void  in  his  heart,  which  seeks  love  and  finds 
.it  not ;  who  finds  a  void  in  his  very  existence  whose  half  has 
abandoned  him  ;  who  finds  a  void  in  the  cry  of  his  children, 
who  call  for  their  mother  and  are  not  answered  ;  who  finds  a 
void  in  his  very  ears,  when  he  repeats  the  name  of  his  com- 
panion, and,  believing  she  will  answer,  finds  himself  alone  with 
silence  ?  Oh  !  this  solitude  is  more  desolating  than  that  of 
the  tomb,  two  minutes  after  one  has  heard  the  first  clod  fall  on 
the  coffin  which  entombs  the  lost  loved  one.  And  are  there  no 
other  similar  solitudes?  Oh,  yes!  the  turmoil  of  the  cities 
envelopes  many  solitudes.  That  of -the  unprotected,  that  of  the 
destitute,  that  of  one  whose  loved  ones  are  far  away,  and  others, 
which,  if  not  so  desolating  as  the  loss  of  a  wife,  are,  neverthe- 
less, like  the  silence  of  the  seas  to  the  shipwrecked,  who,  al- 
ready exhausted  of  his  strength,  fights  against  the  furious  element. 

It  is  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  vaults  are 
heard  groans  which  rive  the  soul.  The  steps  of  him  who  weeps 
resound  in  the  solitude  of  the  ruins,  whose  silence  makes  more 
observable  the  profound  lamentation  which  is  as  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  of  time.  In  the  cavern  devoted  to  the  terribly-myste- 
rious moments  of  the  gallows,  Schmidt  is  pacing,  the  tails  of 
his  long  coat  flapping,  his  eyes  swollen  with  weeping,  his  beard 
moistened,  his  features  wrinkled,  his  mouth  slightly  opened,  his 
hands  folded  on  his  breast,  not  a  word  escaping  his  lips ;  at  tin- 
foot  of  the  fearful  apparatus  is  Jose,  his  head  drooping  on  his 
chest,  where  he  stifles  his  sighs,  seeing  his  liberator  so  afflicted. 


THE  R  UlNS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  49 

The  latter  halts,  erases  to  groan,  looks  at  the  instrument  of 
death,  his  countenance  shines  with  the  refulgence  of  despera- 
tion ;  he  casts  down  his  eyes,  sees  Jose,  and  shaking  his  head 
bursts  into  tears  and  says  to  him : 

—  Jose,  my  son,  would  it  not  be  better  to  die  than  to  be 
deprived  of  those  we  love  like  children  ? 

Feliti  makes  a  sign  which  is  neither  affirmative  nor  negative, 
and  afterwards  adds : 

—  No,  good  Doctor,  it  is  not  better,  because  thus  we  should 
give  more  freedom  to  those  who  delight  in  tormenting  us  ? 

—  But  Jose,  does  it  not  seem  sad  to  you  to  be  alone  ?     She 
who  with  her  eyes  of  celestial  blue  was  my  felicity,  she  who 
knew  how  to  mitigate  the  rage  of  my  breast,  she  who  passed  her 
hands  down  my  beard  and  brought  to  my  remembrance  those  of 
Wilhelmina,  those  of  my  little  daughter,  she  who  with  her  in- 
nocence filled  us   all  with  joy,  now  she   is   far  away,  Jose,  now 
she  is  far  away !     And  he  !  oh !  he  was  my  hope,  my  future, 
the  crowning  of  my  work  ;  his  head,  his  head  !  ....  oh  !  he  who 
remains  suffers  a  hundred  times  more  from  solitude  than  he  who 
journeys  !     And  through  whom  do  I  see  myself  deprived  of  the 
children  of  my  adoption  ?     Jose,  in  putting  this  question,  I  lose 
conformity  to  the  will  of  God ;  but  no  matter,  I  have  so  to  act 
that  he  will  not  enjoy  his  triumph.     Why  should  we  suffer  the 
malefactor  ever  to  mock  at  the  righteous  ?     An  idea,  Jose,  an 
idea 

Here  the  sage  reflects  for  a  while,  and  then  adds : 

—  They   are  going  to  Paris,   I   set   out   to-morrow  night, 
you  must  rejoin  them  ;  but  before  that  we  have  many  things 
to  do.     At  present  forty-eight  hours  remain  to  us  according  to 
what  the  sous-Prefet  said  to  me :  forty-eight  hours  are  so  many 
centuries ;  let  us  set  out  hence,  and  not  suffer  the  Baron  de 
Vieux  to  insult  in  our  persons  the  Dignity  of  Humanity. 

They  go  out,  and  we  will  leave   them  and  go  in  search  of 
Hector,  the  gentle  Rosamunda.  and  Martha. 


150  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

The  bargeman  had  scarcely  sheered  off  £fnd  the  vessel  begun 
to  be  carried  along  by  the  stream,  when  Hector  felt  a  sensation 
of  fear  without  knowing  any  cause  for  it,  and,  seated  in  a  corner 
with  his  knees  set  wide  apart,  he  formed  a  reclining  place  for 
the  body  of  Rosamunda,  whose  head  he  clasped  with  both  his 
hands.  They  were  but  just  two  leagues  distance  from  Nogent 
when  the  police  agent,  Henri,  leaped  on  shore  and  left  them  in 
the  hands  of  the  bargeman  and  two  companions  of  his.  The 
rain  had  ceased  and  the  sky  began  to  show  its  serene  and  beau- 
tiful countenance,  as  a  pretty  child  after  crying  while  its  mo- 
ther is  washing  its  little  face,  exhibits  its  beauty  to  the  best 
possible  advantage.  The  calmness  of  the  weather,  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  hours  of  twilight,  the  silence  of  the  vicinity  they 
were  passing,  the  emotions  experienced,  her  age  and  position, 
made  the  enchanting  girl  say  to  the  enamored  youth : 

—  Hector,  I  am  sleepy. 

—  Sleep,  my  Rosamunda,  rest  your  head  on  my  knee  and 
sleep  ;  I  will  wake  you  at  the  first  approach  of  daylight. 

—  And  are  not  you  sleepy  ? 

—  I  am  not  sleepy,  but  my  head  is  dizzy. 

—  Then  go  .  .  to  .  sleep  .  .  .  also. 

The  head  of  Rosamunda  drooped  like  the  rose-sprout  in  the 
scorching  heat  of  a  tropical  noon,  and  fell  on  the  left  thigh  of 
her  companion,  who,  without  knowing  what  he  said,  added : 

—  I  .  .  will  .  wake  .  .  you  .  .  .  don't  .  .  don't  .  concern  . 
your  .  .  . 

And  as  he  finished  the  "  yourself,"  his  head  dropped,  which 
movement  half  brought  him  to  himself,  making  him  repeat : 

—  Don't .  .  concern  ....  yourself. 

Both  are  now  sleeping,  at  three  paces  distance  from  the 
helmsman  and  from  Martha,  and  the  two  other  men  who  have 
till  now  been  stretched  on  the  deck,  rise  up  and  set  themselves 
beside  the  captain,  and  in  an  undertone  and  in  slang  or  argot, 
which  is  the  favorite  language  of  the  mariners  of  the  Seine, 


THE  K  UINS  OF  THE  PA  UA  CLETK  \  5 1 

sons  of  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  commence  the  following  discourse, 
more  with  dumb  motions  at  first  than  with  words. 

Muchetampot,  who  is  the  captain,  touches  the  shoulder  of 
Flamangel  with  his  hand,  and  with  his  foot  the  leg  of  Fla- 
neur, and  then  stretching  out  his  forefinger  points  to  the  two 
young  people,  screwing  up  his  lips  and  licking  them  several 
times. 

Flaneur  pulls  out  his  clay  pipe  from  his  sheepskin  jacket, 
fills  it  with  tobacco,  goes  towards  the  lantern  to  light  it,  and 
with  a  gross  gesture  says  : 

—  Good  tobacco  ! 

Flamangel  rubs  his  hands,  throws  a  kiss  to  Rosamunda,  and 
says  softly : 

—  Eh  bien  !  jc  passer ais  une  nuit  blanche  .... 
Muchetampot  puts  his  finger  to  his  mouth,  and  the  three 

bringing  their  faces  close  together,  he  says : 

—  According  to  appearances   they  are  running  away,  and 
hence  to  Paris  there  are  yet  eight  and  twenty  leagues  good. 

—  Oh  !  they're  running  away  ! 

—  Him — Flaneur  makes  signs  as  though  he  were  throwing 

something  in  the  water — and  her  then Louviers'  Island 

or  .... 

—  Hush  !  there's   time  enough  ;   I  will  tell  you  presently 
what  I  have  thought,  for  now  the  day  is  coming  and  ....  then 
....  the  night  .... 

—  But,  the  Policeman  .... 

—  Deuce  take  the  policeman  !     You  know  Henri  belongs 
to  us. 

—  Morbleu !  if  I  were  Muchetampot  I  would  not  let  this 
blondine  off  to-night,  nor  the  brunette  either. 

—  Mafoi  !  que  tu  as  un  coup  de  gibelct  pour  ....  and  you 
do  not  know  whether  the  captain  is  .... 

—  Stop  !  in  case  we  do  perform  something  amusing,  I  pro- 
pose— and  Flamangel  takes  out  his  poignard,  sticking  it  in  the 
rudder — I  propose  that  it  be  by  lot. 


152  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  Sacre  bleu  !  it  shan't  be  by  lot,  Flantangel,  it  shan't  be 
by  lot,7>ar  la  queue  cht  Diablc !  it  shan't  be  by  lot !    You  know 
that  I— and  he  puts  his  hand  in  his  breast  and  takes  out  a  dag- 
ger of  about  a  hand-breadth's  length,  which  vibrates  like  the 
tongue  of  a  serpent — you  know  that  I  don't  stick  my  blade  into 
clumps  of  wood,  but  into  hearts. 

—  What  then — says  Flaneur,  showing  a  file  with  Damascene 
point,  and  so  fine  as  to  cut  through  steel  without  producing  any 
sound — what  then,  Muchetampot,  you  want  every  thing  for  your- 
self?    Heel  of  Mahomet !  that  time  is  gone  by,  now  the  light- 
est finger  deals  the  cards  :  and  the  blondine  shall  be  put  up  by 
lot,  or  if  not  ....  ma  foi /  ....  if  not  ....  it  fhall  be  all  up 
with  him  ! 

—  And  we  are  two  against  one,  eh  !     Muchetampot,  do  you 
understand  ? 

—  Well,  come  now  !  just  listen 

—  Look,  they're  moving. 

—  No  matter,  they  don't  understand  argot. 

—  Who  knows  that  ? 

—  They're  all  still. 

—  No,  it's  better  to  hold  our  tongues. 

Hector  awakes  at  this  moment,  and  asks  the  captain  : 

—  Sir.  where  are  we  \ 

—  A  good  way  from  Nogent ;  the  current  is  pretty  strong — 
then  turning  to  his  companions,  he  adds  in  a  low  voice — when 
we  haul  to  for  breakfast  we  can  talk,  and  now  let's  pump  them 
a  bit,  for  they  don't  seem  brother  and  sister,  as  the  gendarme 
told  me  they  were ;  they  sit  too  close  together,  and  take  too 
much  care  of  one  another,  eh  ?  .... 

—  Do  you  want  to  sleep,  Muchetampot? 

—  I'm  not  sleepy,  you  go  if  you  want. 

Neither  of  them  is  willing  to  sleep,  for  each  distrusts  his 
companion.  This  is  the  condition  of  the  wicked  :  nevertheless 
they  retire  to  one  side  nearly  opposite  the  group  formed  by 
Hector.  Rosamunda,  and  Martha,  and  tho  captain  intones  one 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  153 

of  those  obscene   songs  which,  from  such  constant  use  by  the 
canaille,  seem  to  them  sacred  songs  or  hymns  to  the  saints 

The  delicious  girl  sleeps  on  the  lap  of  the  youth.  Her 
countenance  is  so  beautiful,  her  expression  so  gentle,  that  it 
would  have  inspired  devotion  in  any  but  such  as  the  three  boat- 
men. Muchetarnpot  finishes  the  refrain  of  his  ditty  with  a  peal 
of  laughter,  and  demands  of  Hector  : 

—  Young  man,  are  you  brother  and  sister  ? 

—  Yes,  sir. 

The  helmsman  winks  at  those  who  lie  stretched  on  the  right. 

—  Well,  that   seems  strange,  because  you  are  too  fond  of 
one  another  to  be  the  same  blood. 

Hector  shrugs  his  shoulders  in  token  of  contempt  for  what 
has  just  been  said  to  him. 

—  And  where  are  you  from  1 

—  From  Paris,  whither  we  return. 

—  This  little  girl  looks  like  a  German,  don't  she,  Flaneur '? 

—  A  sprightly  lass  !     Young  man,  your  sister  is  a  pretty 
little  wench. 

At  this  phrase,  which  so  wounds  Hector,  that  he  cannot  en- 
tirely conceal  his  indignation,  these  vile  beings  exchange  winks, 
and  Flaneur  continues : 

—  Come,  boys,  don't  say  any  thing  about  the  blondinc,  for 
her  brother  don't  like  jests.     See  what  a  face  he  makes  ! 

—  'Sblood  and  thunder  !  if  I  was  travelling  with  my  sister, 
and  the  folks  called  her  a  little  duck  and  praised  her  up,  I'd  be 
as  proud  as  a  puff;  but  of  course   if  it  was   my  sweetheart,  it 
would  be  another  story. 

—  Bah  !  Flamangel,  what  do  you  put  such  notions  into  our 
heads  for?  don't  you  see  that  .... 

—  That  what  ? 

—  That  the  young  man  's  getting  angry  1 

—  Pooh  !  let  him  get  angry.     A  pretty  kettle  of  fish,  if  we 
can't  say  what  we  think  ! 

—  Messieurs,  till  now  I  have  not  said  a  word  to  you,  and  I 

7* 


154 

beg  you  out  of  respect  to  my  sister  and  this  young  lady,  not 
to  continue  your  conversation,  otherwise  I  shall  land. 

—  The  boy  is  right — says  Muchetampot,  with    an    air  of 
command,  after  exchanging  a  glance  with  his  companions — he 
is  right,  leave  them  alone  ;  passengers  must  be  respected,  espe- 
cially when  there 's  ladies  in  the  case. 

—  Come,  let  it  be  as  the  captain  says. 

Rosamunda  awakes,  and  seizing  both  Hector's  hands,  with 
her  face  turned  towards  him.  says  : 

—  My  Hector,  what  can  our  father  be  doing  ? 

—  Speak  German,  for  these  people  are  very  vile,  and  I  don't 
wish  that  they  should  understand  what  we  say. 

—  I  was  afraid  of  them  from  the  moment  we  came  on  board, 
even  before  I  had  seen  them. 

—  They  disgusted  me  also ;  but  from  hence  to  Paris  is  not 
very  far. 

—  We   might  land    here   when  we   breakfast    and   Martha 
leaves  the  boat ;   see  with  what  looks  they  are  regarding  us. 

—  Take  no  notice  of  them,  they  are  miserable  creatures. 

—  Poor  doctor  !  oh  !  Hector,  how  he  wept. 

—  But  I  do  not  lose  all  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  Rosa- 
munda ;    he  told  me  before  leaving  the  Paraclete,  that  Jos5 
would  come  within  a  short  time  to  rejoin  us,  and  would  let  us 
know  what  the  doctor  thought  of  doing. 

—  He  told  me  also  the  same,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  I  do 
not  fret  so  much  ;  because  being  with  you,  and  having  the  hope 
of  seeing  him  again,  I  have  no  need  to  be  so  afflicted  as  if  it 
were  for  ever. 

—  Certainly  not. 

—  I  warrant  you  do  not  know  what   he   said  to   mo  by  the 
bank  of  the  river,  amid  his  tears  and  embraces  ;  I  warrant  you, 
my  Hector,  you  do  not  know.     He  is  so  good,  he  is  so  kind, 
that  I  love  him  as  much  as  I  could  my  father,  if  I  had  one. 

—  What  did  he  say  to  you  ? 

—  In  this  trunk  that  I  am  sitting  on,  there  are  two  hundred 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  155 

and  fifty  louis-d'or — here  she  drops  her  voice  although  speak- 
ing German — one  hundred  and  fifty,  according  to  him,  are  mine, 
and  one  hundred  yours  ;  but  according  to  me,  two  hundred  and 
fifty  are  yours. 

—  Excellent  man  !  as  to  that,  he  told  me  I  should  not  have 
to  concern  myself  as  to  how  I  should  pay  my  expenses  for  one 
year  in  Paris ;  and  gave  me  two  double  louis  for  the  journey. 

—  Don't  you  think  Martha  will  come  too  ? 

—  To  Paris  1     She  has  said  nothing  to  me — Martha  cannot 
understand  what  they  say  in  German — but  I  believe  we  shall 
see  her  again. 

—  So  it  seems  to  me. 

—  And  now  we  ought  to  consider  that  we  shall  be  arriving 
soon,  and  devise  some  means  of  becoming  acquainted  with  those 
persons  who  can  give  us  information  about  those  things  the 
doctor  spoke  to  me  of,  because  we  cannot  pass  our  lives  in  en- 
joyments without  knowing  what  we  have  to  undertake. 

—  Hector,  these  men  frighten  me  ;  the  expression  of  their 
eyes,  as  they  look  at  me.  makes  me  shudder. 

—  Let  us  move  over  to  the  other  side,  for  the  sun  is  about 
to  rise. 

They  go  towards  the  prow,  sit  down  on  the  seats,  put  Rosa- 
munda's  portmanteau  at  their  feet,  and  continue  talking  of  the 
doctor,  of  Feliii,  of  Martha's  being  about  to  leave  them,  of  the 
beauty  of  some  spots  along  the  river,  of  Rosamunda's  being  so 
beautiful,  of  what  they  feel  finding  themselves  free,  masters  of 
their  own  actions,  with  money,  talent,  abilities,  and  at  the  gates 
of  Paris.  Hector,  in  the  midst  of  the  pleasure  which  enthrals 
his  senses  when  he  sits  beside  his  enchanting  Rosamunda,  does 
not  fail  to  experience  some  sudden  bursts  of  vengeance,  and  in 
thought  mingles  the  name  of  the  Baron  with  those  of  his  be- 
loved and  of  Schmidt. 

Thus  they  go  on,  ravished  in  each  other's  eyes,  quite  absent 
from  what  is  around  them  ;  meanwhile  the  following  conversa- 
tion is  carried  on  by  the  three  bandits,  who  may  well  be  most 


156  THE  WO  FATHERS. 

fruitful  in  wickedness,  seeing  that  they  have  studied  in  several 
of  those  various  classes  which  the  government  keeps  open  irnitis 
for  the  rabble  of  thieves  and  murderers,  who.  in  those  establish- 
ments of  infernal  instruction,  complete  their  education.  In  the 
vile  trio  they  arrive  at  this  point :  Flamangel  says  : 

—  No ;    I  arrange  the  thing  better,  so  that  Muchetampot 
may  have  no  responsibility,  and  we  may  all  amuse  ourselves. 
You,  Muchetampot,  you  pretend  to  be  their  friend  all  to-day, 
and  quarrel  with  me  and  Flaneur  when  we  happen  to  say  some 
merry  word,  and  we  will  have  a  fight  which  shall  end  by  your 
threatening  to  put  us  ashore :  in  four  hours  we  shall  arrive  at 
the  place  where  we  are  to  put  the  pale  one  ashore,  afterwards 
at  night  we  will  tie  you  up,  but  with  a  loose  knot,  so  that  you 
can  get  away  and  come  after  us :  him  let  us  throw  into  the  wa- 
ter where  there  is  a  good  strong  current  and  the  river  makes  a 
sharp  bend,  we  overpower  her,  bandage  her  eyes,  and  manage 
her  so  as  to  hinder  her  making  even  a  whisper ;  we  draw  along- 
side, jump  ashore,  do  what  we  want,  by  lot,  mind,  and  leave 
her.     We  two  go  to  Paris  and  see  one  another  again  in   the 
island ;  you  return  to  the  craft  and  let  the  people  see  how 
you've  been  served. 

—  Good  !  and  where  shall  it  be  ? 

—  Parbleu  !  the  river  runs  pretty  fast,  and  this  night  about 
twelve  o'clock,  we  may  be  between  Montereau  and  Melun,  and 
there  are  some  lonely  sort  of  places  there  where  the  current, 
swollen  as  it  is,  will  be  just  what  will  suit  us. 

—  Come,  then,  begin  after  breakfast. 

—  We  must  not  stop  in  any  village. 

—  Not  to  be  thought  of. 

—  At  the  crib  of  mother  Flaneuse  1 

—  A  good  place. 

—  Agreed. 

In  half  an  hour  they  descry  the  buildings  of  Bray  de  la 
Seine  where  Hector  wishes  to  laud  ;  but  he  is  not  permitted  to 
do  this,  the  captain  saying  he  is  obliged  to  make  his  usual 


THE  B UINS  OF  THE  PARA CLETE.  \  57 

halts,  and  that  in  Bray  they  would  be  exposed  to  having  their 
passports  asked  for  by  the  gendarmes,  and  that  according  to 
what  the  agent  of  police  had  told  him,  they  have  none.  The 
young  man  is  convinced,  and  seeing  the  captain  so  pleasant, 
lays  aside  part  of  the  distrust  he  experienced  at  the  outset. 
And  so  at  ten  o'clock  they  arrive  at  a  small  house  which,  being 
buried  in  a  wood,  could  only  be  known  to  the  old  navigators  of 
the  Seine,  and  there  a  decent  breakfast  is  served  up  which  Mu- 
chetampot  wishes  to  pay  for,  and  in  fact  contends  about  it  for 
some  time  with  Hector,  who  yields  for  this  occasion,  compro- 
mising by  taking  upon  himself  the  dinner.  It  seems  that  the 
reprimand  of  the  captain  has  quieted  his  disorderly  comrades, 
who,  as  Muchetampot  says  to  Hector  and  Rosamunda,  are  men 
unknown  to  him,  and  whom  only  the  necessity  of  having  some 
one  to  help  him,  has  made  him  take  with  him,  and  here — he 
adds  with  the  coolness  of  the  villain — here  on  the  rivers  it  is 
necessary  to  know  with  whom  one  journeys,  for  many  misfor- 
tunes have  happened :  it  is  true,  there  is  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of,  because  at  every  step  one  meets  with  the  public  force ;  but 
it  is  better  to  go  provided.  The  vessel  is  not  over  good,  but 
you  can  have  the  cabin,  and  for  one  night  one  can  manage  any 
where. 

—  When  shall  we  arrive  in  Paris? 

—  To-morrow  evening.      Oh,   if  the  river  were  to  increase, 
we  should  arrive  before. 

This  halt  has  two  objects ;  to  breakfast,  and  to  land  the 
country  girl,  whose  house  is  not  far  off.  As  the  captain  finishes 
his  discourse  with  Hector,  Rosamunda  and  the  afflicted  Mar- 
tha, the  latter  sets  about  her  journey.  She  does  not  possess 
any  thing  to  demand  a  porter,  or  any  care ;  her  own  person,  a 
modest  dress,  and  a  little  bundle,  which  from  time  to  time  she 
presses  to  her  breast,  are  all  she  has  to  take  with  her. 

The  leave-takings  of  the  poor  have  not  the  ostentation  and 
noise  of  those  of  the  rich  ;  but  in  them  the  heart  operates  with 
all  its  grandeur.  We  would  be  very  happy  to  make  a  de- 


158  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

scription  of  this  interesting  scene,  but  we  will  limit  ourselves 
to  the  relation  of  the  last  words  exchanged  by  these  generous 
souls. 

Rosamunda  and  Martha  embrace,  in  tears  ;  Hector  looks  on 
in  sadness.  Between  her  sighs,  the  country  girl  says : 

—  Adieu,  my  friend,  adieu  ;  our  separation   has   not  to  be 
for   long ;  we  shall  see  each  other  in  Paris   soon ;  don't   cry. 
don't  cry  ;   M.  le  Docteur,  and  Jose,  follow  us 

—  Yes,  Martha,  yes,  we  shall  see  each  other  in  a  short 
time. 

—  Come,  don't   weep ;  our   separation   is   only   for   a   few 
days. 

—  Oh,  Hector  ! — replies  the  village  girl  with  melancholy — 
Oh,  Hector  !  they  may  be  few ;  but  who  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen to  us,  and  whether  we  shall  meet  again  ? 

—  It  is  true,  Martha,  it  is   true  ;   Martha  is  right,  Hector, 
Martha  is  right. 

The  youth  is  moved,  but  commands  himself  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  replies : 

—  Quit  those  bad  auguries  ;  we  shall  see  each  other  again 
very  soon ;  we  shall  rejoin  the  Doctor  in   Paris,  after  a  while, 
and  we  shall  be  happy  for  ever.     As  to  meeting  one  another, 
what  is  there  but  to  write  to  my  name  at  the  post-office,  where 
I  shall  go  to  get  letters  1     Come,  you  need  not  distress  your- 
selves. 

While  the  poor  young  people  are  discoursing  thus,  the 
malefactors  of  the  barge  wink  at  them,  make  jests  horribly  sig- 
nificant, and  finally  the  two  absent  themselves,  directing  their 
steps  towards  the  river.  The  captain  takes  the  tw.o  young 
people  from  Martha's  arms,  saying  : 

—  Come.   Messieurs,  come,  we  are  losing  the   best  of  the 
day  :  come  aboard  ! 

It  would  not  be  so  easy  to  separate  the  friends ;  but  the 
cry,  "  Come  aboard,"  makes  them  burst  out  into  a  copious  flood 
of  tears,  abandoning  their  determination  to  go  by  land,  because, 
without  a  passport,  how  can  they  reach  Paris  ? 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  1 59 

What  passes  as  the  two  go  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river, 
and  the  other  towards  the  thick  of  the  wood,  can  be  imagined 
by  those  who  have  loved  with  the  affection  of  youth  and  of  mis- 
fortune, and  part  without  the  certainty  of  ever  meeting  again. 
Hector  and  the  maid  of  the  ruins  arrive  at  the  barge  melan- 
choly, whither  Flaneur  and  Flamangel  have  already  preceded 
them,  and  they  let  themselves  glide  on  with  the  stream. 

Youth,  however  much  may  have  been  theoretically  taught, 
are  exposed  at  every  breath  to  falling  into  the  snares  of  the 
wicked.  Hector  and  Rosamunda,  those  two  sensible  souls, 
those  two  noble  hearts,  believe  the  captain  is  their  friend,  with- 
out any  more  proof  than  his  having  rebuked  the  insolent  man- 
ners of  his  two  comrades.  Oh !  how  deserving  of  compassion 
are  the  young,  who  imagine  themselves  capable,  in  the  midst  of 
their  inexperience,  of  encountering  the  dangers  of  travel  ! 

No  matter,  although  we  may  be  making  a  digression.  Re- 
flections which  occur  opportunely,  are  no  insignificant  ornaments 
of  a  story,  they  are  embellishments  which  gracefully  clothe  it, 
and  which  the  chronicler  ought  not  to  throw  away  when  they 
present  themselves  to  him.  We  must  confess  that  travelling 
enlightens  men  ;  but  we  cannot  do  less  than  observe  that  the 
fathers,  the  husbands,  the  guardians  who  permit  their  children, 
wives,  and  wards,  to  take  journeys  alone,  commit  an  impru- 
dence, the  fatal  results  of  which  are  generally  irremediable. 
The  principal  causes  of  the  abuses  committed  by  captains  of 
vessels,  by  conductors  of  diligences,  and  by  travelling  com- 
panions, spring  from  the  carelessness  of  society  in  not  sur- 
rounding the  traveller  with  its  assured  protection.  Of  all  na- 
tions that  we  have  visited,  that  which  deserves  the  highest 
praise  for  individual  security  on  the  public  ways,  is  the  United 
States  ;  after  which,  to  judge  from  the  little  we  have  seen  of  it, 
comes  England  ;  but  France,  Spain,  Italy,  some  parts  of  Ger- 
many, and  all  South  America,  are  detestable  for  the  father, 
husband,  brother,  and  gentleman  who  may  have  the  care  of  la- 
dies. What  pictures  are  not  presented  in  the  obscurity  of 


160  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

night  in  these  diligences,  upon  those  canals,  upon  those  rivers, 
upon  these  railways  !  Pictures  as  to  which  the  victims  arc  in 
part  silent,  because  it  is  impossible  for  them  to  explain  them, 
and  which  the  shameless  fellows  and  vile  travellers  reproduce, 
with  peals  of  laughter,  at  the  end  of  the  journey.  The  small 
size  of  the  vehicles,  the  frankness  inspired  by  travel,  the  idle- 
ness enjoyed,  the  close  contact  of  the  person,  the  rocking  of 
the  carriage,  the  obscurity  of  the  night,  the  liberties  which 
the  situation  involves,  are  more  than  sufficient  to  frighten 
fathers  of  families,  and  particularly  when  having,  as  is  gene- 
rally the  case,  to  travel  with  people  unknown,  and  mostly  rude. 
If  we  turn  from  carriages  by  land  to  sailing  vessels,  we  shall 
have  at  each  furrow  they  trace  upon  the  sea,  upon  the  waters  of 
rivers  or  canals,  to  weep  over  other  as  great,  or  greater  abomi- 
nations, committed  through  the  gross  brutality  of  captains  and 
passengers.  The  disorder  of  sea-sickness,  the  prostration  of 
the  body,  the  relaxation  of  the  mental  powers,  the  necessity  the 
poor  ladies  are  under  of  seeking  assistance,  gives  to  the  ill-dis- 
posed captains,  who  in  some  countries  are  fortunately  few.  all 
imaginable  advantages  for  failing  in  the  highest  quality  of  a 
seaman — nobleness  of  conduct.  Few  persons  have  ever  trav- 
elled without  being  able  to  relate  anecdotes,  some  filthy,  others 
piquant,  and  not  a  few  indecent.  These  men.  as  soon  as  they 
see  a  young  woman  alone,  without  any  one  to  protect  her,  or 
any  one  able,  when  they  shall  arrive  on  shore,  to  knock  out 
their  brains,  permit  themselves  to  take  all  manner  of  improper 
liberties  with  their  hands ;  to  employ  every  double-cntcndrc. 
every  disrespectful  look,  every  vicious  smile  proper  to  rascals. 
Poor  Education  !  into  what  vile  hands  art  thou  passing  ? 
The  government  ought  by  severe  laws,  to  surround  all  travel- 
lers, whether  by  sea  or  land,  with  an  atmosphere  of  respect, 
and  require  the  captains,  masters,  and  commanders  of  mercan- 
tile vessels  to  acquire  for  themselves  in  the  social  world,  a  re- 
putation for  their  good  manners,  and  to  repress  the  freedom  of 
men  on  board  who  are  travelling  as  passengers.  On  a  hundred 


THE  R  UISS  OF  THE  PAS  A  CLETE.  \  6 1 

occasions  we  have  seen  the  modesty  of  a  lady  shocked  where 
she  could  not  possibly  cry  out  or  make  demonstrations  of  dis- 
gust, for  the  very  reason  that  she  was  a  lady  ;  and  from  this 
very  virtue  the  vicious  and  discourteous  are  enabled  to  get  the 
best  of  it.  Fortunately,  the  generality  are  not  of  this  stamp  ; 
but,  nevertheless,  amid  so  many  abuses,  it  is  necessary  for  the 
minority  to  be  corrected,  that  they  may  not  make  proselytes. 
And  what  might  we  not  say  about  certain  vessels  of  South 
American  rivers  ?  Oh,  here  we  have  not  to  do  with  particu- 
lars ;  all  go  the  same  road.  We  only  warn  fathers,  that  if  they 
had,  in  order  to  reach  heaven,  to  pass  by  those  rivers,  they 
would  pray  not  to  die  till  roads  were  made,  or  rather  that  they 
might  never  go,  for  roads  take  many  centuries  to  become  de- 
cent. How  delightful  it  would  be,  at  least  for  those  who  tra- 
vel, if  all  knew  how  to  respect  the  dignity  inherent  in  them  as 
men,  and  to  look  upon  woman  with  veneration  !  Oh  !  a  day 
must  come,  when  civility  will  replace  grossness,  virtue  receive  its 
adoration,  and  vice  be  ashamed  to  find  itself  beside  it ;  but 
until  this  happy  moment,  it  will  be  well  for  the  governments 
to  begin  taking  more  care  of  the  decorum  of  those  who  travel 
by  road,  or  are  obliged  to  cross  the  seas  ! 

The  vessel  to  which  Schmidt  has  confided  his  two  children 
of  adoption,  is  one  of  those  miserable  barges  which  serve  only 
for  wickedness,  under  pretext  of  carrying  fruit  and  provisions. 
The  gendarme  makes  his  harvest  by  smuggling,  or  otherwise, 
out  of  the  boatmen  ;  and  Henri,  on  this  occasion  has  wished  to 
do  a  good  action,  little  guessing  at  the  result.  The  children 
have  no  passport,  and  it  was  therefore  necessary  to  find  a  ves- 
sel and  crew  accustomed  to  illicit  traffic ;  for  the  same  reason 
it  is  no  wonder  that  these  men  indulge  in  such  conversations 
as  we  have  heard,  to  the  prejudice  of  their  passengers. 

The  wickedness  of  the  Isle  described  by  the  fluent  pen  of 
Eugene  Sue,  furnishes  a  scene  in  which  the  author  imitates  na- 
ture in  colors  so  true,  that  we  devoutly  wish,  for  the  true  fame 
of  the  celebrated  writer,  that  he  had  employed  just  such  in 


162  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

all  liis  works ;  and  as  in  this  isle,  so  equally  in  other  places, 
there  are  to  be  found  men  who  are  rational  beings  only  to  the 
extent  necessary  to  enable  them  to  devise  and  execute  their 
schemes  of  -wickedness. 

It  is  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  till  now  nothing  lias 
occurred  that  could  awaken  the  least  suspicion  in  the  young 
people,  who.  having  gained  confidence,  have  begun,  still  always 
in  German,  to  joke  about  their  riches.  For  a  while  Flaneur  is 
observing  them,  in  order  to  get  hold  of  some  gossamer-pretext 
for  beginning  the  conflict ;  and  as  love,  though  it  does  not  see. 
yet  makes  itself  seen,  in  looks,  in  gestures,  in  movements,  in 
broken  words,  there  has  not  escaped  so  much  as  a  turn  of  the 
eyes  from  the  glance  of  the  sagacious  malefactor ;  and,  excessively 
annoyed  at  not  understanding  what  they  say.  he  catches  at  that 
very  thing,  and  in  order  to  commence,  calls  Flamangel,  who,  for 
his  part,  is  busy,  weaving  his  own  plots.  A  manifestation  of  af- 
fection, which  a  man  of  more  experience  would  have  called  impru- 
dent, and  which  Hector  believes  only  fraternal,  gives  the  heart- 
less rascals  an  occasion  for  commencing  hostilities  ;  it  is  thus. 

Rosamunda  is  seated  on  the  bench  on  the  right  side  of  the 
prow,  and  at  her  left,  the  young  man  Hector :  the  wind  agitates 
her  blond  and  curling  chevelure,  which  caresses  the  lips  of 
the  young  man,  making  him  remain  silent :  as  though  to  free 
himself  from  the  emotions  which  it  causes  him,  he  takes  a  curl 
between  his  fingers,  and  giving  it  a  few  turns,  gazes  at  the  work 
of  his  hands,  that  is,  the  fine  and  silky  ringlets,  the  contact  of 
which  electrizes  him  and  holds  him  speechless ;  when  suddenly 
his  ears  are  assailed  by  these  words  which  proceed  from  the 
mouth  of  Flamangel : 

—  Look,   Flaneur,   look,  this    brother  and   sister  love   one 
another  like  a  newly  married  couple  ! 

—  That's  just  what  I  am   thinking ;  the  young  man's  jea- 
lousy is  just  like  a  sweetheart's,  and  his  actions  are  something 
more. 

—  And  she  sleeps  when  he  combs  her. 


THE  M  UWS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  63 

—  And  he  gives  her  such  looks,  that 

—  Well !  there's  no  harm  in  that ;  all  men  are  brothers,  and 
women  sisters. 

—  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Every  one  has  his  own  way  to  kill  fleas  ! 
these  are  as  much  brother  and  sister  as  my  grandmother 

—  Ha  !  ha !  ha  !    And  look  at  the  captain,  how  serious  he  is  ! 

Hope  to  be  he  won't  hear  us,  for  he  ....  by ....  he  is 

very  fond  and  tender  with  the  fair  little   ones  that  are   sisters, 
and-  his  passengers,  and  .... 

—  But  he   is  right,  boy,  for  this  is whew-w ! 

what  a  gal  ! 

The  blood  of  Hector  runs  through  his  veins  with  such  velo- 
city, that  he  can  neither  hear  nor  see.  Rosamunda,  observing 
that  he  trembles  from  head  to  foot,  seizes  his  hand  and  presses 
it  between  hers.  The  young  man  distinguishes  some  few  words 
more  which  fill  his  face  with  blazes,  and  throwing  down  the  soft 
hands  of  the  girl,  he  jumps  to  his  feet,  approaches-  the  two  men, 
and  says  with  a  tone  of  anger : 

—  I  believe,  sirs,  that  to  insult  people  is  contrary  to  all 
laws,  and  ought  to   be  chastised ;  move  away  from  hence   and 
shut  your  unclean  mouths,  for  besides  complaining  of  it  to  the 
captain,  I  tell  you  I  have  nineteen  years  on  my  back  and  a 
heart. 

—  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !    See  what  news  the  boy  is  telling  us  !    He 
has  got  a  heart,  and  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  who  has  not ;  and 
nineteen  years  .... 

—  And  you  take  it  so  cool,  Flaneur  ? 

—  Why,  who"'d  care  about  a  driveller  like  that  ? 

From  behind  Hector,  who  is  pale  with  rage,  arises  the  soft 
voice  of  Rosamunda,  who  says  to  him,  seizing  him  by  the  arm  : 

—  Come,  Hector,  come. 

—  Poor  little  blondine  ! — exclaims  Flaneur — how  pale  she 
is  lest  something  should  happen  to  her  ....  brother. 

—  Bon  Dieu !  how  young  they  are  to  be  travelling  by  such 
solitary  places  all  alone  ! 


164  'niE  TWO 

—  Have  done,  sirs,  have  done,  or  I  will  let  you  see  I  have 
got  some  strength  in  my  arm. 

Here  is  the  very  thing.  The  bandits  venture  to  raise  their 
fists,  and  Hector  freeing  himself  from  the  hands  of  Rosamuuda. 
assails  one  of  them,  and  gives  good  proof  that  it  is  not  in  vain 
that  he  has  taken  lessons  in  the  gymnasium  of  the  Paraclete, 
for  he  makes  Flamangel  measure  his  length  on  the  deck,  and  is 
preparing  to  give  just  such  another  lesson  to  Flaneur,  when,  at 
the  cries  of  all,  and  particularly  at  the  demand  of  Rosamunda. 
the  captain  interferes. 

In  a  few  minutes  quiet  is  entirely  restored,  and  the  rascally 
captain  threatens  his  comrades  to  put  them  ashore  unless  they 
conduct  themselves  according  to  his  orders,  and  tells  Hector  he 
has  just  served  them  right,  and  taken  the  very  best  means  of  teach- 
ing the  nasty  fellows  how  to  treat  folks  with  respect ;  and  still 
further  to  screen  himself  from  all  responsibility,  he  adds : 

—  I  told  you  once  before  this  morning,  that  this  is  the  first 
time  these  men  have  been  in  my  boat,  and  I  am  very  sorry  now 
that  I  have  taken  them. 

It  is  eleven  o'clock  at  night ;  the  weather  is  calm,  and  in  the 
barge  not  a  breath  is  to  be  heard.  After  the  scene  of  the  after- 
noon, an  absolute  peace  had  reigned  between  the  boatmen  and 
passengers,  so  that  the  young  people,  after  enjoying  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  and  the  delicious  spectacle  presented  by  the  twink- 
ling canopy  which  covered  their  amorous  sighs,  determined  to 
go  to  bed.  Rosamunda  felt  afraid,  and  would  not  suffer  Hector 
to  separate  himself  from  her  side  ;  so  she  put  the  portmanteau 
which  inclosed  her  treasure  underneath  the  blanket,  which  served 
for  a  pillow,  lay  down  under  the  caboose,  and  made  the  youth 
stretch  himself  at  her  feet.  The  moon  illuminates  this  interest- 
ing picture  without  shining  upon  the  beautiful  group,  except  on 
one  side.  Muchetampot  is  singing,  and  the  other  two  malefac- 
tors go  and  come,  making  believe  to  be  arranging  something 
The  two  young  people  are  not  asleep,  and  they  hoar  Mucliotani- 


THE  RU1XS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  165 

pot  put  Flamangel  at  the  rudder,  and  go  to  bed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  them.  Now  there  is  heard  only  the  murmuring  of 
the  waters  of  the  river  which  pass  by  kissing  the  timbers. 

The  age  at  which  our  two  young  friends  have  arrived,  is  one 
in  which  disagreeable  sensations  do  not  long  retain  their  hold, 
and  in  which  anger  is  but  momentary ;  it  is  like  the  tropical 
climate,  which,  in  the  midst  of  its  luxury,  becomes  furious, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  again  presents  its  smiling  face  to  the  earth 
which  it  has  agitated  with  its  tempestuous  rage.  Rosamunda 
sleeps,  feeling  the  warmth  of  Hector's  hand  upon  her  feet.  He, 
at  the  delicious  impression  received  from  the  smooth  feet  of 
his  enchanting  little  companion  held  fast  in  his  hands,  plunges 
into  dreams«which  make  him,  without  knowing  it,  kiss  the  hem 
of  her  dress,  which  magnetizes  him  by  its  delicious  contact. 
Oh,  upon  what  a  beautiful  group  is  the  midnight  moon  shed- 
ding its  rays  !  Rosamunda  is  enveloped  from  her  waist  down- 
wards in  a  colored  blanket,  her  delicious  head  is  raised  by  the 
portmanteau,  with  her  face  upwards,  her  long  natural  ringlets 
are  scattered  on  this  side  and  on  that,  adorning  her  beautiful 
bosom  as  with  an  ample  collar ;  her  right  arm  is  raised  over 
her  head,  the  left  reposes  on  her  breast,  which  rises  and  falls 
with  majestic  tranquillity,  Hector  is  beside  her  with  both 
hands  clinging  to  her  feet,  and  his  countenance  hidden  among 
the  folds  of  the  beauty's  dress  :  they  are  a  subject  worthy  of  the 
pencil  of  Velasquez,  especially  when  the  moon  pours  out  her 
silver  light  upon  the  group,  and  heightens  its  beauty  by  the  fan- 
tastic effects  of  her  rays. 

They  are  a  little  below  Montereau,  in  an  eminently  danger- 
ous whirlpool,  formed,  in  a  bend  of  the  river,  by  the  strong  cur- 
rent of  the  waters  of  the  Seine.  The  solitude  of  the  spot,  the 
profound  sleep  of  the  two  young  people,  and  the  opportunity 
furnished  them  by  the  whirlpool,  determine  the  bandits  to  put 
into  execution  their  infernal  idea.  Flaneur  and  Flamangel,  on 
all  fours,  and  without  shoes,  approach  the  place  where  they  are 
sleeping,  which  is  close  to  the  bulwarks  of  the  prow,  under  the 


166  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

caboose.  One  sets  himself  at  the  head  and  the  other  at  the 
feet  of  Hector ;  they  regard  him  with  attention,  lean  down, 
stretch  out  their  arms,  take  hold  of  him  ;  he  struggles  between 
the  two  ;  now  cries  are  heard,  now  they  are  making  an  effort,  as 
though  to  throw  him  overboard ;  they  have  him  still  struggling 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  boat,  which  is  wandering  as  it  is  impelled 
by  the  current.  Hector  makes  superhuman  exertions ;  Rosa- 
munda  screams  ;  Muchetampot  calls  for  help  ;  the  brigands  con- 
quer :  Hector  has  gone  head  first  into  the  water.  They  rush 
upon  Rosamunda,  the  barge  approaches  the  bank,  the  two  seize 
her  between  them,  they  tear  her  dress,  she  is  barefooted,  they 
seem  trying  to  throw  her  overboard,  she  makes  one  effort,  gives 
a  spring,  and  falls  into  the  river,  calling  Hector  with  all  her 
might 

At  the  same  time  that  these  things  are  passing  on  the 
Seine,  between  Montereau  and  Melun,  Schmidt  has  been  for 
four-and-twenty  hours  preparing  to  leave  his  ruins.  At  about 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  some  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
neighborhood  are  looking  towards  the  Paraclete.  They  see 
flames  and  smoke  ;  it  is  so  dense  and  red  that  the  laborers 
vow  with  oaths,  that  hell  itself  has  been  opened  there,  and  that 
the  devils  are  broiling  the  wizard,  the  conjuror,  the  old  man  of 
the  ruins,  upon  a  gridiron.  They  cross  themselves  so  fast,  that 
any  one  seeing  them  from  a  distance  would  say  they  were  driv- 
ing away  from  their  faces  thousands  of  insects.  They  dare  not 
give  information  to  the  police  of  what  they  see,  because,  per- 
chance the  wizard  being  done  too  hot  on  Satan's  gril,  might  let 
fly  through  the  air  some  drops  of  burning  oil,  and  so  reduce 
'  their  houses  to  lava,  and  their  fields  to  ashes.  What  is  in  re- 
ality passing  is  the  following  : 

Schmidt,  before  his  decampment,  wishes  to  destroy  every 
thing  that  exists  in  the  vaults  of  the  Paraclete  ;  and  having 
sent  Jose  with  some  money  safely  to  Paris,  forms  a  great  pyre 
of  the  skeletons,  craniums,  gallows,  seats,  beds,  instruments,  and 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  167 

all  that  he  possesses,  and  impregnating  the  whole  with  a  power- 
ful combustible  liquid,  now  sees  that  burning  to  ashes  which 
he  had  made  yield  him  so  much  knowledge,  but  which  men 
would  judge  proofs  of  guilt  sufficient  to  condemn  him,  thus 
compelling  him  to  reveal  to  them  that  which  he  does  not  choose 
them  to  know.  Of  all  these  objects  he  reserves  only  the  skulls 
of  his  wife  and  daughter,  which,  hidden  amongst  his  modest 
baggage,  were  to  accompany  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

UNHAPPY  that  I  am,  exclaimed  Paul,  who  shall  deliver  me 
from  the  body  of  this  death  ?  And  if  the  apostle  thus  com- 
plained of  his  body  of  death,  of  his  body  of  passions,  of  appe- 
tites, of  misery,  the  spirit  wishing  to  do  well,  and  the  body  not 
permitting  it ;  of  this  law  of  the  members  warring  against  the 
law  of  the  soul,  how  much  more  reason  have  not  men,  who  are 
very  far  from  being  Pauls,  to  complain  of  their  body  of  death  ? 
Oh  !  if  wishing  to  do  well  we  see  a  law  which  fights  against  the 
law  of  the  mind,  what  must  be  the  condition  of  the  miserable 
men  who  have  never  bowed  before  any  law  but  that  of  their 
appetites  ?  Oh  !  world  of  mire  !  Why  do  not  men  reflect,  and 
instead  of  amassing  gold,  which  they  shall  soon  leave  for  others 
to  count  up,  seek  treasure  for  tKemselves  and  others  in  educa- 
tion, which  is  the  gold  of  fine  chrysol,  and  which  can  purify  us 
from  the  dross  of  the  flesh  ?  Oh  !  how  many  will  laugh  at  us. 
poor  beginners  in  the  thorny  career  of  the  writer,  because  we 
give  utterance  to  ideas  like  these?  No  matter:  our  consola- 
tion is,  that  they  are  the  genuine  offspring  of  the  Gospel  doc- 
trine, and  the  gates  of  hell  shall  never  prevail  against  the  aegis 
to  which  we  cling.  Laugh  on  !  you — you  who  laugh  at  us  will 
be  brought  to  confess  that  which  thousands  of  thousands,  in 
spite  of  you,  already  confess,  and  will  yet  manifest ;  and  then 
we,  who  believe  in  the  Testament  of  Christ,  will  rejoice,  not  at 
seeing  you  confounded,  but  at  seeing  you  turned  to  him,  and 
confessing  that  education  based  on  faith  in  the  God-Man,  does 
set  free  from  the  unbridled  lusts  of  the  body  of  this  death. 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PA  RA  CLETE.  \  59 

We  see  among  us  occasionally,  some  of  those  elevated  minds 
who  have  not  only  to  contend  with  the  flesh,  which  gives  them 
trouble  enough,  but  also  with  the  world ;  and  while  they,  with 
much  difficulty,  come  off  victorious  over  the  former,  the  latter 
submerges  them  in  its  quagmires  of  impurity.  Their  own 
weakness,  their  miseries,  their  griefs,  their  sufferings,  certainly 
were  not  sufficient  to  overcome  those  men  ;  it  was  necessary  in 
order  to  make  them  die  every  moment,  that  they  should  have 
others  of  their  kind,  who,  from  want  of  religion  and  education, 
from  parcity  of  wisdom,  or  rather  let  us  say  from  stupidity, 
exercise  the  odious  office  of  executioners  of  humanity.  Let  us 
see  if  it  is  not  so.  Observe  the  rich  or  the  poor,  the  great  or 
the  little,  the  wise  or  the  ignorant,  the  soldier  or  the  citizen, 
the  priest  or  the  believer,  the  man  of  letters  or  the  artist,  the 
artisan  or  the  journalist,  the  citizen  or  the  rustic,  the  wife  or  the 
husband,  the  public  man  or  the  obscure,  the  young  man  or  the 
aged,  fighting  with  outstretched  arms  against  THE  BODY  OF  THIS 
DEATH  :  he  is  born  weeping,  whatever  may  be  his  cradle,  whe- 
ther of  filagree  or  of  osiers  ;  he  weeps  for  seven  years,  because 
he  can  neither  understand,  nor  make  himself  understood ; 
when  a  child  he  is  in  desperation,  because  all  domineer  over 
him,  while  he  feels  an  inner  force,  which,  though  he  knows  not 
what  it  is,  tells  him  that  his  soul  is  equal  to  those  of  others ;  he 
sees  himself  humiliated  by  hundreds  of  infirmities  which  afflict 
him  :  what  is  pleasing  to  the  palate  injures  him,  cold  makes 
him  sick,  heat  martyrizes  him,  the  wind  fills  him  with  pain, 
quietude  of  the  body  enervates  him,  excessive  movement  fa- 
tigues him,  little  sleep  weakens  him,  much  sleep  imbrutes  him  ; 
when  he  sees  that  what  the  soul  tells  him  the  body  fights 
against,  he  is  in  despair,  and  that  what  the  latter  desires  the 
former  reproves,  he  is  exasperated :  the  age  of  mere  impres- 
sions passes,  and  these  are  followed  by  infinite  torments  :  at- 
tending school,  the  appetite  for  overcoming  his  equals  in 
trifles,  the  stings  of  concupiscence  which  wake  him  from  the 
sweet  dream  of  innocence,  and  a  thousand  other  things,  which 


1 70  THE  TWO  FA  THEKS. 

the  lad  suffers  before  he  is  fifteen,  and  which  all  undergo,  are 
torments  which  his  body  inflicts  upon  him  in  all  social  condi- 
tions. He  has  arrived  at  puberty.  It  is  here  that  the  flesh 
and  the  world  unite  to  levy  homage  to  Mammon,  Money,  the 
Devil ;  and  between  the  three  they  drive  him  mad.  The  poor 
suffers,  thinking  how  he  will  gain  his  miserable  subsistence,  and 
for  that  he  has  to  bow  the  neck  to  every  body.  The  rich  suf- 
fers, because  the  conservation  of  riches  costs  many  anxieties, 
many  toils,  many  pains.  The  public  man  has  to  fight  with  as 
many  Hercules  as  the  individuals  or  passions  which  compose 
the  nation.  The  noble  wishes  to  be  more  than  the  plebeian, 
the  plebeian  to  be  equal  with  the  noble.  The  sage  is  indignant 
to  see  men  so  imbruted  ;  the  ignorant  laughs  at  the  sage,  suffer- 
ing because  he  cannot  be  equal  to  him  ;  the  rulers  suffer,  and 
the  ruled  are  in  fury  ;  the  grossness  of  the  coarse  irritates 
those  who  are  refined ;  tyranny  exasperates  the  mild  ;  selfish- 
ness makes  every  one  of  us  suffer  when  we  see  others  better  off 
than  ourselves.  We  covet  the  wife,  the  knowledge,  the  virtue, 
the  wealth,  the  prosperity,  the  health,  the  goods  of  others. 
Carried  away  by  this  whirlwind  of  disorderly  passions,  we  in- 
troduce contentions  at  the  fireside,  into  the  cities,  into  king- 
doms, into  nations  ;  we  light  the  brand  of  discord  between 
Spaniards  and  French,  between  the  English  and  North  Ameri- 
cans, between  citizen  and  citizen,  between  brother  and  brother, 
between  parents  and  children ;  we  awaken  mistrust  between 
husband  and  wife  ;  we  turn  every  thing  to  account  for  the  gra- 
tification of  our  appetites.  Oh  !  who  will  deliver  us  from  the 
body  of  this  death.  If  a  few  retire  from  the  world  we  go  after 
them,  to  hurl  them  back  into  the  hurricane  in  which  we  are 
whirling,  to  goad  them  into  desperation ;  and  we  employ  at  one 
time  religion,  at  another  politics,  now  the  rights  of  man,  now 
social  inequality,  the  pride  of  the  nobles,  the  abject  condition 
of  the  proletarian  classes,  the  misery  of  the  people,  the  want  of 
instruction,  the  mode  of  government,  our  own  qualities,  to  rob 
our  fellow-creatures  of  their  eouanimity.  Here  is  a  little  child 


THE  B  UINS  OF  THE  PAR  A  CLETE,  \  7  [ 

who  cried  for  a  toy,  playing  by  himself,  glad,  enjoying  his  ac- 
quisition. Leave  him  alone.  Look  at  his  eyes,  sparkling  with 
pleasure  ;  observe  the  agitation  of  his  little  breast,  the  restless- 
ness of  his  whole  frame  ;  he  is  full  of  joy :  do  not  embitter  this 
waking  dream  in  which  he  is  revelling.  Oh  !  impiety  of  the 
misery  of  this  body  of  death,  aggravated  by  the  want  of  good 
examples !  Another  little  one  comes  up,  touches  the  toy, 
takes  it  in  his  hands,  breaks  it,  or  calls  it  a  thousand  ugly 
names,  or  wants  it  for  himself,  and  the  first  little  one  suffers, 
grows  angry,  cries,  is  in  a  passion,  longs  to  make  an  end  of  him 
who  has  woke  him  out  of  the  calm  of  his  little  enjoyments  and 
filled  him  with  rage. 

The  son  of  the  artisan  betakes  himself  to  study,  accom- 
plishes feats  of  intelligence,  sleeps  with  the  book  under  his  pil- 
low, dreams  about  it,  wakes  up  with  it ;  as  he  partakes  of  his 
poor  meal  it  is  beside  him ;  he  takes  a  mouthful  and  ponders 
over  what  he  is  reading  ;  he  goes  his  way  content  in  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  duty.  Oh  !  professors  and  classmates,  leave  him 
alone  in  your  midst ;  do  not  discourage  him.  But  oh  !  cruelty  ! 
however  well  he  may  do,  the  professor  hears  him  like  the  sound 
of  another's  funeral  bell,  while  he  praises  the  stammering  of  the 
son  of  the  noble  or  the  rich  ;  and  the  son  of  the  son  of  the  peo- 
ple, seeing  how  he  is  treated  beside  other  men,  loses  courage, 
tears  leap  into  his  eyes,  he  is  disheartened,  and  goes  home  ex- 
claiming amid  bitter  sobs,  "  Because  I  am  poor,  therefore  it  is 
they  give  me  no  prize  ;  I  have  studied  with  all  my  heart,  I 
know  more  than  the  son  of  Lord  Mammon,  but  he  is  rich. 
Father,  it  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  study  ;  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
shall  never  gain  any  thing  by  it.  I  hate  the  rich.  I  hate  the 
rich ;  I  hate  the  professor  ;  they  are  all  unjust."  And  that 
young  man  is  a  viper,  who  waits  but  his  turn  to  bite  with  con- 
centrated rage  and  fermented  poison. 

Here  is  an  artisan  in  his  workshop,  anxious  to  give  a  last 
touch  to  the  produce  of  his  skill,  anxious  to  have  his  task  com- 
pleted, that  he  may  buy  bread  for  his  children ;  he  needs  the 


172  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

night  for  rest.  Leave  him  alone  !  No.  The  ambitious  dema- 
gogue finds  him  out,  touches  him  in  the  quick,  represents  to 
him  the  insufficiency  of  his  pay,  the  toilsomeness  of  his  work, 
the  ease  of  the  rich,  the  tyranny  exercised  over  the  poor,  the 
sorrow  the  latter  devours  in  obscurity  while  the  other  enjoys 
every  thing  and  supplies  his  vices  with  whatever  caprice  may 
dictate,  and  the  artisan  who  was  quiet,  counting  on  the  ca- 
resses of  his  children,  looks  at  them,  considers  that  they  will 
one  day  suffer  as  he  does,  and  he  becomes  indignant,  kindles  up, 
makes  gestures  as  though  seizing  arms  to  take  vengeance  for 
the  inequalities  of  human  condition,  born  of  an  eternal  law 
which  cannot  cease  to  be,  but  of  which  the  demagogue  does  not 
speak — he  takes  good  care  of  that,  because  then  adieu  to  his 
ambitions — and  the  workman  is  changed  from  a  peaceful  indus- 
trious man  to  a  rioter,  a  perturber  of  the  public  peace  ;  and 
while  the  demagogue  himself  suffers  the  penalty  of  his  own  doc- 
trines, the  poor  artisan  falls  a  victim  to  his  credulity.  Oh  ! 
why  did  you  not  leave  him  alone  in  peace,  or  if  you  must  needs 
visit  him,  why  did  you  not  counsel  him  industry,  constancy, 
respective  education,  holy  religion  ? 

Here  are  the  tailor,  the  shoemaker,  the  carpenter,  the  ma- 
son, the  laborer,  and  all  the  operative,  manufacturing,  industrious 
classes  of  society,  devouring  their  misery,  their  wants,  weeping 
over  their  misfortunes.  Then  comes  along  a  rich  or  an  influential 
man,  pretending  to  hold  out  a  hand  to  them  to  help  them  arise 
from  their  debasement,  and  at  the  same  time  striking  bitter  woe 
into  the  heart  of  the  pretty  wife,  the  charming  daughter  or  the 
beautiful  relative.  Leave  them  alone  !  No,  pompously  re- 
sponds the  magnate,  for  these  classes  remain  passive,  and  it  is 
their  duty  to  fulfil  their  mission. 

Here  is  the  young  writer,  seated  at  his  poor  table,  burning 
his  eyelids,  straining  every  nerve  to  give  bread  to  his  children. 
Leave  him  alone  !  No  !  the  envy  of  some  immures  him,  others 
draw  him  out  from  obscurity  to  public  light  for  their  own  ends, 
and  revolution  overwhelms  him ;  or  when  they  have  launched 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PAR  A  CLETK  1 7  3 

him  into  the  arena,  he  finds  no  one  come  to  his  aid.  Oh  !  have 
compassion  !  Why  do  you  not  encourage  him  ?  why  not  protect 
him  ....  why  not  leave  him  alone  ? 

Here  is  a  rich  man  with  power  and  position,  wishing  perhaps 
to  act  aright,  and  he  falls  in  with  a  scoundrel  who  deceives  him, 
cheats  him ;  and  the  rich  man  who  might  have  made  hundreds 
happy,  is  indignant  at  being  thus  practised  upon,  and  fearing 
all  the  needy,  like  the  man  who  has  cheated  him,  refuses  any 
longer  to  do  good.  Oh  !  why  did  you  not  leave  him  alone,  that 
he  might  pour  out  part  of  his  wealth  upon  the  necessitous  1 
Oh  !  the  theory  of  liousseau  as  to  the  natural  state  of  man, 
oftentimes  appears  really  and  certainly  true,  on  account  of  the 
inattention  of  men  to  religion,  to  education,  to  wisdom.  And 
what  might  not  be  said  of  the  anxiety  of  the  human  heart  for 
money,  for  honors,  for  fame,  for  beauty  ? 

Ask  woman,  study  her,  consider  her.  and  she  will  furnish 
you  with  luminous  examples  of  these  truths.  The  married  wo- 
man, the  maiden,  the  widow,  the  young,  the  old,  if  she  is  alone 
is  good  ;  she  suffers,  because  such  is  the  lot  of  the  human  race  ; 
but  if  she  is  surrounded  by  others  she  is  lost.  She  sees  friends 
with  elegant  attire,  which  comes  very  often  no  one  knows 
whence  or  how ;  loose  conversation,  visits  of  gentlemen,  the 
stories  of  her  circle,  the  anecdote  of  a  relative,  the  slander  of 
an  acquaintance,  are  so  many  powerful  enemies  who  drive  her 
into  evil.  Oh !  why  do  you  not  leave  her  alone  ?  Has  she  not 
pains  enough  with  her  body  of  this  death  ?  Of  whatever  states, 
of  whatever  classes,  of  whatever  conditions  we  discourse,  we 
shall  see  that  the  world  is  more  fearful  even  than  the  flesh. 

It  seems  as  though  the  human  race  had  forgotten  the  law  of 
God  and  turned  idolater.  Where  is  fraternity  ?  What  has  be- 
come of  the  love  of  our  neighbor?  Whither  has  gone  the  pre- 
cept, "  that  which  you  would  not  for  yourselves,  do  not  to  others  ?" 
Whither  has  wandered  the  knowledge  of  religion?  Its  minis- 
ters, who  should  be  ministers  of  peace,  make  war  upon  the  tran- 
quillity of  the  conscience.  Who  will  give  us  a  voice  of  thunder 


174  'l'n%  TWO  FATHERS. 

to  stun  the  world  crying  Religion,  Wisdom,  Education  ?  Poor 
head  of  ours !  whither  hast  thou  gone  ?  We  fancy  we  hear 
many  who,  regarding  us  with  contempt,  and  shrugging  their 
shoulders,  say  to  us :  "  All  you  have  said  is  old.  we  know  it  by 
heart."  What  say  you,  old  ?  Then  why  do  you  not  practise 
it.  and  leave  him  in  peace  who  has  enough  to  do  to  struggle 
with  his  body?  What  say  you,  ohll  We  reply  only  with  the 
mild,  sensible,  generous,  and  eternally-to-be-celebrated  Lninar- 
tine,  that  the  ripe  fruit  is  better  than  the  young,  since  it  has  a 
honey  which  in  the  other  is  but  sour  juice.  The  old  is  the 
symbol  of  duration,  of  constancy,  and  the  Gospel  is  not  old.  for 
with  its  author  time  has  no  existence.  Oh  !  holy,  true  religion, 
oh !  prudent  wisdom,  oh !  gentle  education !  descend  upon  the 
earth  and  embrace  under  your  shadow  the  circumference  of  the 
world,  that  all  men  may  recognize  you  and  follow  in  your  track. 
But  what !  will  men  perchance  listen  to  a  poor  mortal,  when 
they  do  not,  unless  it  be  a  very  few,  listen  to  God  ?  It  seems, 
if  we  may  be  pardoned  the  comparison,  that  they  would  fain 
imitate  the  dogs,  who  every  where  and  always  bark  at  each 
other  whenever  they  meet,  and  if  one  happens  to  be  lying  down 
quietly,  twenty  rush  at  him  to  molest  him,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with 
him,  to  bite  him,  to  goad  him  into  battle,  that  they  may  tear 
each  other  to  pieces. 

If  each  one  will  lay  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  turn  his 
eyes  within,  no  one  can  possibly  doubt  that  this  is  true ;  viz. : 
that  if  his  kind-heartedness  is  converted  into  anger,  he  owes  it 
to  intercourse  with  men  ;  that  if  his  good  faith  degenerates  into 
mistrust,  he  owes  it  to  intercourse  with  men ;  that  if  his  recti- 
tude takes  a  tortuous  road,  he  owes  it  to  intercourse  with  men ; 
that  if  his  innocence  changes  into  iniquity,  he  owes  it  to  inter- 
course with  men  ;  that  if  he  is  tortured  by  envy,  he  owes  it  to 
intercourse  with  men ;  that  if  very  often  he  looks  upon  religion 
as  a  torment  to  his  soul,  it  is  men  who  have  thus  transformed 
the  mild,  gentle,  inestimable  code  of  Jesus  Christ,  our  boun- 
teous Legislator,  who  himself  experienced  that  the  flesh  is  weak  ; 


THE  UL'ISX  Ob'  THE  PARACLETE.  [75 

that  if  he  becomes  indignant  against  certain  classes  of  society. 
he  owes  it  to  intercourse  with  them,  to  false  demagogic  elo- 
quence, or  to  the  prejudices  of  men  his  companions  ;  and  in  fine, 
from  the  companies  we  visit  we  derive  the  evil  or  the  good  our 
souls  desire.  Proverbs  are  certain  maxims  passed  through  the 
alembic  of  experience,  which  stripped  of  flowers,  of  leaves,  of 
the  terrestrial  parts,  remain  the  spirit  of  the  truth  only,  and  if 
we  consult  them,  we  shall  see  that  "  it  is  better  to  be  alone  than 
ill-accompanied ;"  that  ';  you  may  know  a  man  by  the  company 
he  keeps  ;"  that  "good  fruit  will  be  spoiled  if  you  mix  it  with 
the  rotten ;"  and  there  are  innumerable  others  which  corrobo- 
rate the  foregoing  proposition ;  that  is,  that  the  world  does 
more  injury  to  man  than  his  body  of  death.  And  what  is  the 
reason  of  this  ?  We  turn  in  the  circle :  the  want  of  religion, 
which  commands  us  to  love  our  neighbor  as  ourselves ;  the  want 
of  wisdom,  which  teaches  the  causes  and  effects  of  our  actions, 
and  of  all  the  phenomena  produced  by  the  senses,  furnishing 
remedies  for  what  is  evil  and  incitements  to  continuance  in  what 
is  good ;  the  want  of  respective  education,  which  would  make 
men  mild  in  society,  and  teach  them  to  feel  that  all  their  inter- 
course with  their  fellow-creatures  ought  to  have  for  its  sole  ob- 
ject, to  add  to  their  own  and  to  other's  enjoyment.  Oh  !  if 
men  were  penetrated  with  these  truths,  how  would  it  be  possi- 
ble that  they  should  harass  their  brethren  1 

Poor  Schmidt,  from  the  age  of  thirty-five  years,  had  re- 
nounced intimate  intercourse  with  men,  because  he  found 
them  always  so  prone  to  do  ill  to  their  fellows.  He  had  re- 
nounced honors,  riches,  worldly  fame ;  he  had  married,  believ- 
ing no  one  would  perturb  the  harmony  of  the  little  world  he 
was  going  to  form  for  himself;  he  had  given  himself  up  to  sci- 
ence, that  he  might  in  this  manner  do  good  to  his  kind,  since 
it  was  not  within  his  power  to  do  it  in  any  other  ;  he  had  tra- 
velled in  order  to  gather  up  knowledge,  which  could  not  but  in 
some  measure  add  to  the  happiness  of  men,  and  one  of  these 
in  his  absence  did  not  leave  him  alone,  but  sought  by  his  ini- 


176  THJ-:  TIVO  FATIII:I;S. 

quitous  proceedings  to  convert  the  gentle  Schmidt  into  a  san- 
guinary criminal.  The  sage  has  experienced  the  war  of  his 
body  of  death  ;  he  has  succumbed  many  times  in  the  conflict :  he 
has  wept  over  his  wanderings,  he  has  almost  purged  out  his 
faults  ;  but  at  this  hour,  seated  near  the  ashes  which  during 
the  night  he  has  been  making  there,  pass  through  his  mind  the 
words :  "  He  who  takcth  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword," 
and  like  a  fiery  serpent  they  burn  his  brains,  rending  from  him 
a  cry  of  horror.  We  know  Schmidt  has  been  victim  of  the 
world,  of  its  bad  organization,  of  the  immorality  of  men.  But 
why  has  he  just  uttered  a  cry  so  sad,  and  repeated  between  his 
teeth,  "  He  who  taketh  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword  ?" 
Let  us  listen  to  him  ;  his  countenance  is  sad,  his  voice  is  weak, 
his  gesture  mournful  in  the  last  degree,  he  looks  up  to  heaven, 
and  a  tear  trickles  from  his  eye : 

—  You  are  right — says   he,   as  though  talking  with  some 
one — you  are  right.     In  youth  the  flesh   made  me  mad ;  men 
are  right  to   conspire  against   me.      Oh  !  how  miserable  is  the 
son  of  Adam  !     Even  science  becomes  in  his  hands  subservient 
to  evil ;  even  holy  religion  is  converted  into  the  instrument  of 
his  ideas ;  even  education  serves  to  ensnare  him 

Some  whistles  are  heard  ;  the  sage  drops  his  head  on  one 
side,  closes  his  eyes,  stands  up  and  says  : 

—  Ah  !    it  is  Henri ;  this  night  I  shall  leave   the   Para- 
clete. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  vaults  he  is  met  by  the  agent  of  po- 
lice, who  with  changed  countenance  says  to  him  : 

—  Doctor,  Doctor,  they  are  lost ! 

—  Who,  Henri? 

—  The  two  young  people  have  been  thrown  into  the  river  ; 
the  captain  has  been  met  bound  by  those  who  were  coming  up 
early  this  morning  by  the  steamboat,  and   the  murderers  were 
the  worthy  boatman's  two  companions. 

—  Henri !    Henri !  do  you  really  know  this  that  you   are 
saying  ?     Is  it  certain  ?     Is  it  positive  ? 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  77 

—  So  positive  that  the  barge  has  been  towed  up,  and  is 
now  at  the  pier  of  Nogent.     The  crime  was  committed  at  mid- 
night, between  Montereau  and  Melun. 

—  Oh   God  !    oh  God  !  even  to  the  loss  of  my  children  of 
adoption  !     Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  even  as  it  is  done  in 
heaven  ! 

—  And  more,  Doctor,  the  fire  in  the  night  has  given  rise  to 
calumny,  curiosity,  and    great    suspicion   against  you,    and   I 
doubt  not  that  before  noon,  the  authorities  will  present  them- 
selves at  these  ruins. 

—  That  is  unimportant ;  as  far  as  concerns  myself,  I  fear 
nothing ;  but  my  children,  Henri,  my  children  !    And  their  bo- 
dies, and  their  bodies  \ 

—  Nothing  is  said  to  give  any  hope  that  they  have  been 
found. 

—  Oh   God  !  this  only  was  wanting  to  the  poor  Schmidt ! 
Henri,  this  night  you  will  come  here,  and  will  find  close  to  the 
entrance  of  the  monastery  a  box  for  you. 

—  And  where  are  you  going,  Doctor  ? 

—  I  don't  know  whether  I  go  or  remain ;  but  in  any  case 
you  will  find  it.     The  bodies  of  my  children  !  .  .  .  .  The  bo- 
dies of  my  children  ! 


CHAPTER   XII. 

WHO  that  knew  him  would  have  said  that  the  sage  Schmidt 
would  one  day  be  wandering  around  the  ruins  where  he  had 
thought  to  be  at  last  happy,  and  that  he  would  fall  a  victim 
to  moral  death  ?  But  such  is  the  great  drama  of  the  world  ;  its 
protagonist  personages  change,  but  the  antagonist  are  always 
the  same :  World,  Devil  and  Flesh  ;  or,  Irreligion,  Ignorance, 
Want  of  education,  Idleness,  and  Inconstancy.  This  drama, 
represented  during  these  sixty  centuries,  proves  that  the  modern 
school  which  generally  makes  vice  triumphant  and  virtue  suffer, 
has  not  done  so  ill,  considering  what  happens  in  fact.  Since 
the  tragedy  of  Abel,  vice  remains  living  and  virtue  dead ;  and 
if  perchance  men  celebrate  the  latter,  sing  hymns  to  it,  praise  it, 
it  is  after  having  said  over  it  the  prayers  for  the  departed.  At 
the  hour  of  death  there  will  not  be  wanting  to  Schmidt  some 
panegyrist,  as  among  the  Egyptians  in  the  time  of  their  Pha- 
raohs ;  but  while  he  lives  they  manage  to  do  him  all  the  evil 
possible,  perhaps  with  the  intention  of  judging  his  ashes  im- 
partially, and  celebrating  his  death  as  liberation  from  a  mon- 
ster, who  could  with  a  breath  poison  the  earth. 

It  is  night,  and  in  a  little  boat  there  is  a  man  crossing  the 
river,  who,  with  two  little  linen  bags  at  his  feet,  looks  towards 
the  ruins  of  the  Paraclete,  and  sighs.  He  sets  foot  on  shore, 
puts  the  bags  on  his  shoulders,  and  having  remunerated  the  boat- 
man, begins  to  walk.  Before  him  runs  a  dog,  who  stops  from 
time  to  time,  as  though  he  asked  his  master  which  path  to  take: 
but  the  man  is  so  absorbed  that  he  pays  no  attention  to  the 


THE  R  JJINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETK  \  79 

mute  prayers  of  the  animal,  nor  knows  whither  his  steps  are  lead- 
ing him.  In  the  midst  of  his  dejection  it  might  be  inferred  that 
these  ways  were  as  familiar  to  him  as  his  own  house,  supposing 
him  to  have  one.  He  neither  speaks  nor  groans  nor  sighs ;  he 
walks  and  walks  without  even  feeling  the  weight  of  his  burdens, 
or  taking  note  of  the  distance  between  him  and  the  ruined  mo- 
nastery. Sometimes,  impelled  by  instinct,  he  puts  the  bags  on 
the  ground,  sits  upon  them,  and  passes  his  hand  over  his  broad 
forehead  as  though  a  violent  heat  afflicted  him,  or  some  despe- 
rate thought  tormented  him.  The  road  he  takes  leads  in  a  di- 
rection contrary  to  that  of  Paris ;  it  is  day.  and  he  still  walks ; 
there  is  reigning  in  his  system  that  force  which  is  lent  by  despe- 
ration, a  force  which  knows  no  limits  but  those  imposed  by  the 
enervation  of  the  body,  which  often  falls  prostrate  on  the  ground 
exhausted  of  material  strength,  and  which  does  not  correspond  to 
the  abnormal  state  of  the  spirit.  In  the  places  through  which 
he  passes  he  is  taken  for  a  beggar :  such  is  his  aspect. 

He  has  walked  for  two  days  and  nights  ;  it  is  summer,  and 
he  feels  neither  the  heat  of  the  sun  nor  the  keen  air  of  the 
night.  On  the  third  morning,  during  the  hours  of  scorching 
heat,  he  falls  into  a  ditch  beside  the  high  road :  the  faithful 
sheep-dog  puts  his  nose  near  the  nostrils  of  the  swooned  man, 
pricks  up  his  ears,  wags  his  tail,  sits  up  on  his  hind  legs  look- 
ing round  on  all  sides,  his  countenance  puts  on  a  sorrowful  ex- 
pression ;  again  he  sniffs  around  his  master,  sits  up  again  and 
begins  to  utter  cries  as  sad  as  though  he  were  a  rational  being 
who  had  just  lost  a  son.  The  hour  is  unseasonable  for  people 
passing  that  way  ;  it  is  nearly  noon  and  the  month  of  August, 
and  the  dog  continues  howling  in  a  lugubrious  manner,  which 
frightens  the  people  round  about,  because  they  superstitiously 
believe  it  is  a  sign  of  some  sinister  occurrence.  The  dog  ap- 
proaches anew,  puts  his  nose  to  the  mouth  of  the  man,  raises 
his  head  as  if  seeking  something,  sets  off  running,  finds  a  brook, 
slakes  his  thirst,  returns  dripping  wet,  shakes  his  woolly  ears 
sprinkling  the  half-dead  man.  smells  him  anew,  some  drops  of 


1 80 

water  fall  upon  his  countenance  from  the  lower  jaw  of  the  ani- 
mal, who  sits  up  again  howling  forth  his  despairing  complaint. 
Down  the  road  are  heard  the  bells  of  one  of  those  immense 
harvest  wagons  which  are  used  by  the  French  in  general,  and 
particularly  in  Champagne  and  Tranche  Comte ;  the  sheep-dog 
turns  one  ear  back,  puts  his  head  on  one  side  and  redoubles  his 
howls.  Shortly  after  the  wagon  appears  to  the  left  full  of  corn- 
sheaves  ;  the  dog  continues  his  ill-omened  cries,  and  the  wagoner 
runs  up,  curious  to  see  the  cause  of  the  poor  animal's  distress. 
On  arriving  at  the  ditch  he  sees  Schmidt,  who  has  been  suddenly 
attacked  by  a  fit  of  epilepsy  arising  from  extreme  wcakm ->s. 
fatigue,  and  heat,  these  being  united  with  a  violent  mental 
suffering,  and  which  have  perhaps  deprived  him  of  existence. 
The  extraordinary  noise  which  he  makes,  gnashing  his  teeth. 
the  convulsive  movements  and  fearful  contortions  into  which 
he  is  thrown,  the  separation  of  the  joints  of  the  fingers,  and 
particularly  of  the  thumb,  which  sticks  fast  to  the  palm  ot  the 
hand,  the  froth  which  exudes  from  his  mouth,  the  turn  in  his 
eyes  which  are  fixed  on  one  side,  certain  fearful  starts  and  the 
incurvation  of  the  extremities  of  his  body,  frighten  the  country- 
man, who  is,  like  all  the  ignorant,  superstitious,  and  believes  that 
he  has  to  do  with  a  wizard,  or  an  enchanter,  or  a  man  possess- 
ed. The  presence  of  the  dog.  which  runs  violently  round  the 
wagoner  and  Schmidt,  confirms  the  former  in  his  idea,  and  now 
he  is  filled  with  terror  at  seeing  the  distortions  of  Schmidt's 
countenance  and  the  fright  of  the  horses  who  begin  to  run.  But 
what  wonder  that  the  rustic  believes  such  follies,  since  the  Gen- 
tile nations  believed  this  infirmity,  from  its  symptoms,  to  be 
the  effect  of  the  anger  of  the  gods,  and  Christians,  till  within 
a  very  few  years,  characterized  it  as  the  violence  of  evil  spirits  ? 
Oh  ignorance  !  when  wilt  thou  quit  this  world  ?  Sure  enough 
the  villager  attends  to  his  horses  rather  than  to  his  brother,  and 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  sets  off  running  to  catch  the  former. 
and  leaves  Schmidt,  like  the  poor  man  of  the  Gospel,  whom  the 
Samaritan  found  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Oh.  what  a  religion 


777^  R  UINS  OF  THE  PA  RA  CLETE.  \  3 1 

is  that  of  the  ignorant  and  superstitious  !  Not  in  vain  did 
Christ  set  before  us  the  example  before  mentioned,  to  show  us 
of  what  superstition  is  capable.  Now,  indeed,  the  dog  begins 
again  to  howl,  seeing  that  his  master  is  abandoned.  Does  not 
the  animal  on  this  occasion  better  deserve  the  character  of  com- 
passionate than  the  man  ? 

For  some  time  Schmidt  and  his  dog  remain  thus,  till  it 
pleases  Heaven  to  send  this  way  a  woman,  young  and  lusty,  who 
is  carrying  on  her  arm  a  basket  of  mulberries.  When  she  sees 
what  is  passing  she  lays  down  the  basket,  fetches  some  water, 
sprinkles  the  face  of  the  epileptic,  goes  to  get  assistance,  and 
returns  with  two  men  just  as  the  sick  man  is  recovering  the 
use  of  his  senses. 

Woman  is  a  hundred  times  more  humane  than  man  :  travel, 
suffer,  be  in  pain,  be  unhappy,  and  you  will  find  woman  an  an- 
gel of  consolation.  Oh  !  why  do  not  men  respect  this  which  is. 
even  by  instinct,  the  more  virtuous  half  of  the  human  race  ? 

Schmidt  knows  what  is  the  matter  with  him  from  the  effects 
he  experiences,  and  begs  they  will  remove  him  to  a  place  where 
he  can  bleed  himself.  Another  wagon  which  is  coming  along 
the  road,  supplies  them  with  the  means  of  doing  this. 

Thirty-four  leagues  has  the  sage  walked  in  two  days  and 
some  hours,  and  he  is  now  near  Ferte,  a  little  village  not  far 
from  Chaumont,  whose  vicinity  is  solitary  enough,  in  the  midst 
of  the  fertility  of  Champagne.  In  a  poor  house  in  the  environs 
of  the  village  is  his  lodging.  Two  days  afterwards  he  sets  out 
for  Chaumont. 

Schmidt  enters  this  small  but  very  beautiful  city,  and  at 
the  expiration  of  some  day  or  two  receives,  late  in  the  evening, 
the  following  note  : 

DOCTOR, 

Notwithstanding  the  time  that  has  transpired,  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
must  be  the  very  individual  who  some  years  ago  cured  a  relation  of  mine  in 
Paris ;  and  my  eldest  daughter  having  been  given  up  by  the  physicians,  I 
have  recourse  to  yon,  whose  science  has  done  such  wonders.  If  you  will 


1 82  THE  TWO  FA  THERS. 

listen  to  the  voice  of  a  despairing  father,  have  the  goodness  to  come  with 
the  bearer  to  this  house,  where  you  may  wipe  away  the  tears  of  a  whole 
family, 

Your  obed't  servant,  .Ii  AN  TARD. 

The  bearer  of  this  note  is  a  boy.  The  doctor  asks  him 
some  few  questions,  to  which  he  replies  by  saying  only : 

—  I  am  a  servant  of  the  house. 

—  And  is  the  sick  lady  far  from  here  ? 

—  An  hour's  distance  in  the  country. 

—  Then  it  will  be  necessary  to  take  a  carriage. 

—  I  have  come  in  one. 

—  Then  come,  my  son  ;  I  am  not  following  my  profession 
here,  for  I  am  only  on  a  journey  ;  but  it  is  my  duty  to  do  good 
when  the  opportunity  is  offered  me. 

They  descend  the  staircase  of  the  poor  inn  where  Schmidt 
is  lodged,  and  enter  the  carriage.  It  must  be  about  ten  o'clock 
at  night.  To  travel  at  that  hour  by  the  communal,  or  cross- 
roads, in  the  province  of  Champagne,  is  not  to  be  accomplished 
without  very  considerable  inconvenience,  considering  the  neg- 
lect in  which  these  roads  are  left  in  all  France,  and  particu- 
larly in  the  district  where  that  which  we  are  narrating  took 
place.  It  is  not  unknown  to  us  how  much  France  has  advanced 
since  the  year  '30.  in  means  of  communication.  We  know  that 
at  that  period,  she  numbered  twenty-eight  royal,  and  ninety- 
seven  or  more  departmental  roads,  of  which  number,  particu- 
larly in  the  west,  there  are  many  strategic  roads  of  the  first 
class.  We  are  not  ignorant  that  she  had  ten  railroads,  though  of 
no  great  length  ;  but  we  also  know  that  the  French  surface  is  wa- 
tered by  more  than  five  thousand  rivers,  of  which  from  one  hun- 
dred and  ten  to  one  hundred  and  twelve  are  navigable,  many  lakes, 
although  small,  and  seventy  to  eighty  canals,  of  more  than  two 
thousand  miles  in  extent.  It  appears  also  that  it  was  not  with- 
out reason  that  the  Romans  gave  the  province,  which  Schmidt 
is  at  this  moment  traversing,  the  name  of  Campus*  or  Cham- 

*  Almost  synonymous  with  the  term  prairie,  as  used  in  this  country. 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  gg 

pagne,  and  its  extensive  plains,  crossed  and  watered  by  the 
Seine,  the  Marne,  the  Aube,  the  Aisne,  and  the  Meuse,  are  at 
some  periods  overflowed,  and  lakes,  pools,  and  dangerous  depo- 
sits are  thus  formed.  The  irrigating  canals,  which  are  nume- 
rous here,  present  another  no  less  inconvenience  for  travelling 
by  night.  This  understood,  we  will  return  to  the  moment 
when  Schmidt  entered  the  carriage.  And  yet  once  again  we 
allow  ourselves  to  be  carried  away  by  the  imagination,  which 
suggests  to  us  how  France,  for  the  last  two  centuries,  has  been 
the  nation  the  most  worthy  of  being  studied.  This  France  is 
the  centre  of  modern  civilization,  and  the  focus  of  barbarity. 
Look  at  her  last  Revolution  of  1793,  and  her  establishments, 
her  academies,  her  assemblies  of  the  learned,  of  politicians,  of 
artists,  of  litterateurs,  of  men  profoundly  versed  in  every  branch 
of  science,  in  every  art,  of  every  imaginable  attainment.  This 
France,  in  her  tribunals,  presents  fearful  causes  and  criminals  ; 
and  among  her  victims,  heroes  and  heroines.  This  France  over- 
flows with  magnanimous  sentiments,  with  sublime  enthusiasm, 
with  veritable  philanthropy,  with  longing  for  glory,  with  con- 
sciousness of  the  Dignity  of  Man,  with  real  religion,  with  thirst 
for  pleasures,  with  ambition  for  knowledge,  with  proverbial  hos- 
pitality, with  exquisite  delicacy,  with  refined  manners,  with  un- 
equalled taste,  with  a  thousand  virtues  that  cannot  be  appre- 
ciated without  living  in  its  bosom ;  but  this  same  France  wal- 
lows in  nauseating  scenes,  in  miseries,  in  diabolic  fury,  in  Ne- 
ronic  cruelties,  in  abjectness,  in  the  lees  of  sensuality,  in  Sa- 
tanic impiety,  in  inconceivable  lubricity,  in  covetousncss.  in 
avarice,  in  gross  ignorance,  in  a  population  of  filthiest  reptiles, 
like  that  which  is  seen  in  the  quarters  of  la  cit6  in  Paris,  in 
those  of  the  Terrace  behind  the  theatre  at  Marseilles,  in  those 
of  the  River-banks  at  Bordeaux  and  other  cities,  enthusiasm, 
inheritance  of  the  French  mind,  becomes  fury :  and  this  san- 
guinary people,  which  has  seen  more  than  sixteen  hundred  per- 
sons decapitated  in  one  day,  which  has  watered  its  streets  with 
blood,  which  has  hanged  great  men  and  heroes  on  the  lamp 


184  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

posts,  which  has  given  to  the  flames  sumptuous  edifices  and  en- 
tire populations,  which  has  cut  the  throats  of  thousands  of  Pro- 
testants, which  has  set  up  a  common  prostitute  in  a  temple  to 
be  worshipped,  which  has  decapitated  the  benevolent  Louis 
XVI.,  which  has  inflicted  every  kind  of  martyrdom  on  a  Ma- 
rie Antoinette — a  woman  one  of  the  most  celebrated  for  her 
gifts  ever  produced  by  Germany,  which  purged  these  faults  by 
the  death  of  Robespierre,  of  Danton,  and  St.  Just,  which  has 
given  life  to  a  Marat,  and  conceded  it  also  to  a  Charlotte  Cor- 
day ;  this  France,  which  rises  in  moments  of  rage  and  fury, 
like  a  swollen  ocean,  to  destroy  the  world,  while  in  the  very  act 
of  submerging  the  plain  under  her  tremendous  wave,  do  but 
call  to  her  recollection  her  name,  her  exploits,  her  national 
glory,  her  goodness,  and  the  word  of  him  who  thus  appeals  to 
her,  has  the  magical  effect  of  the  Divine  hand  when  it  is 
stretched  over  the  raging  element,  and  makes  it  in  ripples  of 

crimpled   lace,   kiss   the  sandy    beach Oh  !    this 

France  is  the  very  image  of  a  man  gifted  with  the  most  exqui- 
site sensibility,  with  a  most  kind  heart,  with  most  susceptible 
fibre,  with  most  rare  soul,  with  most  gigantic  imagination,  with 
most  refined  enthusiasm,  and  who  is  capable  of  all  good  and  of 
all  evil.  Oh  !  this  France  is  a  Titanic  plant,  which  in  the 
hours  of  intensest  heat  yields  a  grateful  shade,  and  stupefies  one 
who  ventures  to  enjoy  the  cool  air  of  evening  under  its  magni- 
ficent branches.  Oh  !  this  France  is  a  delicious  woman,  that 
intoxicates  with  love,  and  upsets  the  reason  of  the  lover,  mak- 
ing him  commit  every  kind  of  crime,  to  satisfy  the  caprices  of 
the  beautiful  coquette.  Oh !  this  France  is  a  garden  where  are 
to  be  seen  twenty-four  thousand  plants,  as  in  the  tropical  zone, 
thousands  of  which  are  beneficent,  and  hundreds  death-giving 
to  one  who  does  not  know  how  to  use  them  at  exactly  the  right 
moment.  Oh  France  !  incomparable  from  the  remotest  anti- 
quity ?  Not  in  vain  dost  thou  take  to  thyself  the  name  of  free, 
or  franca,  for  in  thy  bosom  grows  the  consecrated  Tree  of  Li- 
berty ;  but  before  yielding  richest  fruits,  it  is  bristling  with 
thorns,  which  draw  much  blood  to  water  its  wide-spreading  feet 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  185 

and  make  its  roots  penetrate  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
whence  will  spring  up  all  over  the  surface  of  the  world,  suckers 
and  mighty  stems.  Oh  France  !  country  of  heaven  and  of  hell, 
inconceivable  mixture  of  good  and  of  evil,  paradise  before  the 
fall  of  man,  and  land  of  malediction  afterwards,  why  dost  thou 
not  Cut  down  the  Tree  of  Death,  uproot  it,  cut  it  up,  burn  it, 
and  foster,  cultivate,  prune,  and  adorn  the  tree  of  life  with  reli- 
gion, wisdom,  education,  industry,  and  constancy,  that  its  fruits 
may  yield  felicity  to  every  French  throat,  and  delight  to  the 
stranger,  like  the  fruit  of  a  neighbor's  garden  ?  If  such  atro- 
cities are  committed  on  thy  delicious  soil,  it  is  because  thou 
dost  not  equally  partition  the  waters  of  these  five  streams,  and 
dost  permit  them  to  water,  even  to  overflowing,  certain  seeds, 
certain  vegetables,  and  leave  others  to  remain  sterile.  Listen 
not  to  mercenaries,  listen  to  thy  veritable  sons,  to  the  noble 
republican  Lamartine,  who  with  his  writings  will  assuredly 
second  thy  noble  instincts,  and  with  the  delectable  flow  of  his 
smooth  and  consolatory  words,  will  make  thy  noble  tenden- 
cies fruitful.  Read,  all  men,  his  "  Tailleur  de  St.  Point"  and 
you  will  feel  your  heart  rise  up  with  unequalled  sensibility, 
even  to  Divinity.  Why,  since  thou  art  so  lovely,  commit  such 
horrors?  Why  does  thy  hatred  invent  such  deeds  of  vengeance? 
Why  dost  thou  suffer  thyself  to  be  dragged  along  by  unworthy 
passions  ?  Will  it  be  perchance  because  thou  wouldst  present 
a  picture  in  which  lights  and  shadows  meet  to  exhibit  the  bet- 
ter the  perfection  of  thy  forms  ?  If  it  be  so,  remember,  beau- 
tiful land,  that  moral  pictures  admit  light,  but  not  shadows ; 
soft  pencillings,  like  those  of  Raphael,  Murillo,  Rivera,  and  the 
ideal  Italian  school,  but  not  dense  masses  of  color,  like  the 
Flemish  school,  or  the  pictures  of  Cano. 

Art  thou  wandering  again,  imagination  ?  Wilt  thou  not 
remain  with  Schmidt  ?  Oh  !  now  I  remain  beside  him  to  see  of 
what  the  heart  of  man  is  capable  when  it  has  been  exasperated. 

The  carriage  has  set  out,  it  has  been  moving  along  for  ten 
minutes  through  the  environs  of  Chaumont.  Schmidt  taking  no 


186  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

notice  of  its  progress,  so  absorbed  is  he  in  his  thoughts,  which 
are  wandering  far  away.     The  sage  is  thinking: 

—  What  chance  is  this?  How  can  I  have  been  recognized 
after  ten  years?  Who  can  be  the  person  whom  I  aided  in 
Paris  ?  But  how  can  I  guess  at  any  one  among  the  thousands  I 
have  known?  Oh  !  if  I  can  console  a  father  by  my  fallacious 
science — fallacious  I  call  it.  for  what  else  is  medicine  ? — but  if 
I  can  dry  his  tears.  God  will  wipe  away  mine,  which  I  also  pour 
out  for  children  of  my  mind  and  heart.  Hector  is  an  ex- 
cellent swimmer,  she,  my  beloved  Rosainunda,  is  not  behind 
him  in  any  thing  ;  who  will  assure  me  that  they  have  not  saved 
themselves  ?  The  fact  that  no  body  has  been  found,  proves  it 
to  me  ;  but  in  these  last  few  days  my  head  has  been  so  overturn- 
ed, ...  even  now  it  is  not  serene.  Will  they  not  have  been  able 
to  escape  the  terrible  death  of  suffocation  in  the  water  ?  oh  yes : 
God  will  have  protected  them  in  that  moment,  and  interlacing 
their  arms  they  will  have  been  inspired  by  the  bravery  which 
the  desperation  of  that  agony  united  to  the  first  devouring  im- 
pulse would  inevitably  awaken.  I  imagine  I  see  them  falling 
into  the  turbid  current,  the  splash  of  the  body  of  one  is  a  sum- 
mons to  the  other,  drawn  by  the  electric  fluid  of  their  love  they 
have  met  in  the  transparent  obscurity  of  the  water  ;  they  have 
embraced,  they  have  stretched  out  their  arms,  like  divers  they 
have  walked  along  the  bed  of  the  river  until  they  were  beyond 
the  reach  of  their  enemies.  Yes,  yes,  they  are  saved.  I  feel  it 
here,  here  in  the  soul.  I  will  read,  as  is  my  custom,  all  the 
periodicals,  and  will  find  their  names  living  as  their  memory 
lives  in  my  soul. 

The  carriage  goes  along  without  making  any  noise,  which 
silence  recalls  to  consciousness  him  who  is  thus  discoursing  to 
himself.  He  puts  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  sees  that 
the  coach  is  going  across  the  fields  over  a  boggy  ground.  It  is 
a  moonlight  night,  so  that  objects  are  represented  to  the  sight 
in  a  peculiar  manner:  it  seems  as  though  at  each  step  they  arc 
going  to  bury  themselves  in  a  lake,  or  that  they  arc  passing 


THE  R  U1SS  OF  THE  PA  RA  GLETE.  \  87 

along  the  bank  of  a  river,  which  has  been  overflowed  during  the 
day.  and  but  recently  confined  again  within  its  narrow  bed,  mak- 
ing the  wheels  sink  into  the  miry  earth,  which  the  river  in  re- 
tiring has  left  behind  in  the  adjacent  fields.  Every  tree  resem- 
bles a  misshapen  man,  every  plant  which  waves  in  the  breeze 
seems  like  a  woman  fleeing  through  the  forest  from  the  compa- 
nionship of  men,  every  whisper  is  a  moan,  every  murmur  of 
the  waters  an  oh  !  ...  of  pain.  The  noise  of  the  town  has  given 
place  to  the  silence  of  the  fields,  interrupted  only  by  the  voices 
of  nature,  which  are  instantly  wrapped  again  in  immobility 
more  monotonous.  Schmidt  moves  to  the  other  seat,  puts  his 
head  out  of  the  little  front  window,  and  says  to  the  boy  who  is 
driving  the  carriage  : 

—  My  good  lad,  we  have  been  travelling  an  hour,  when  shall 
we  arrive  at  the  house  ? 

—  In  a  few  minutes,  M.  le  Docteur. 

And  he  cracks  his  whip  and  sets  off  at  such  a  pace,  that  he 
who  is  within  replies  : 

—  Don't  go  so  very  fast,  for  the  road  does  not  seem  good. 

—  What  ? 

—  The  road  does  not  seem  good. 

—  I  can't  hear.      Get  on!  .  .  .  .  get  on  !  .  .  .  . 
And  he  jerks  the  reins. 

—  Take  care,  boy,  take  care  ;  don't  you  hear  ? 

The  voice  of  Schmidt  is  carried  away  by  the  wind,  and  the 
boy  repeats  : 

—  I  can't  hear,  sir.      Get  on  !     Arr£  !    Chasseur  !  arre  ! 
Tirailleur  !  arrt,  !     Hoo-o-o  who-oy  ! 

The  coachman  makes  the  horses  fly,  and  at  last  arrives  at  a 
cross  road  which  is  steep.  Now  Schmidt  raises  his  voice,  see- 
ing that  he  has  checked  his  pace,  and  again  repeats  : 

—  Boy,  why  do  you  drive  so  furiously  ? 

— Beg  your  pardon,  Doctor,  for  not  answering  you  before  ; 
but  I  wanted  to  get  home  quickly,  because  I  heard  you  ask  me 
how  soon  we  should  arrive. 


188  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  Certainly  ;  and  when  shall  we  do  so  ? 

—  Do  you  see  that  light  in  front,  to  the  left  ? 

—  Where  ? 

—  Here  by  the  left  window. 

—  I  see  it 

—  Then  that's  it ;  we  shall  be  there  in  five  minutes. 

The  descent  begins  to  be  more  gentle,  and  the  coachman 
hurries  on  again.  If  before  he  had  run  full  gallop,  now  he  flies ; 
so  that  in  a  few  instants  they  are  on  the  very  verge  of  a  canal 
of  rapid  current  and  great  body  of  water,  which  is  crossed  by 
a  plank  of  some  six  or  seven  yards  long  The  boy  leaps  to  the 
ground,  opens  the  door,  and  says  to  the  doctor : 

—  Now,  sir,  you   have  to  go  along   here,  and  the  house  in 
front  is  the  sick  lady's.     If  you  wish  I'll   lead  the  way.     Can 
you  see  pretty  well  1 

—  No,  my  good  man,  I  do  not   see  well  enough  to  venture 
to  go  across,  for  I  am  old   and  suffer  from  an  infirmity  which 
might  attack  me  in  passing  so  dangerous  a  bridge. 

—  Then  you  had  better  wait  a  bit,  for  they  have  heard  us,  I 
dare  say,  and  won't  be  long  coming  with  a  light. 

In  fact,  he  has  no  sooner  spoken  this  than  a  man  appears 
carrying  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  who  advances  towards  the  bridge 
to  receive  the  doctor. 

—  Do  you    see  ?     They  are  coming  already.     Now  I  will 
stop  here  to  arrange  the  harness  of  Chasseur,  which  is  out  of 
order. 

At  this  moment  steps  are  heard  besides  those  of  the  man 
carrying  the  lantern,  on  this  side  of  the  canal,  and  a  voice, 
saying : 

—  Good  evening,  gentlemen,  are  you  waiting  for  Master 
Peter  ? 

—  Good  evening,  Francois,  you  come  just  in  time  to  help  me 
set  to  rights  the  horses' traces.     The  gentleman   is  the  v  doctor 
who  has  come  to  £ee  the  young  lady. 

The  new-comer  begins  to  make  extravagant  salutes  after  the 
manner  of  the  French  peasants,  and  rejoins  : 


THE  R UINS  OF  THE  PARA CLETE.  189 

—  How  is  she  to-night  ?     I  heard  the  sound  of  the  coach 
•while  I  was  down  home,  and  says  to  my  wife,  it  must  be  the 
doctor. 

—  Master   Peter   and   all    the   family,    think    she  will    die 


At  this  moment  the  man  with  the  lantern  arrives  at  the 
plank  which  serves  for  a  bridge. 

—  Julien,  have  you  found  the  good  doctor  ? 

—  Good  evening,  sir,  I  am  here. 

—  God  will  reward  you.     I  trust  your  visit  will  take  away 
pains  that  I  have  for  a  long  time  suffered.     Julien,  pass  on  first 
and  give  your  hand  to  M.  le  Docteur. 

—  Thanks, — says  the  physician,  seeing  that  the  little  cloud 
of  light  emitted  by  the  lantern  is  coming  close  up  to  him — 
thanks ;   I  see  now  sufficiently  well  to  pass  over  alone. 

And  he  begins  to  walk  across  the  plank  which,  when  he  is 
in  the  middle,  bends  a  little,  but  it  is  broad  and  strong  enough 
not  to  inspire  him  with  distrust.  While  he  is  crossing,  Fran- 
cois and  Julien  go  over  to  the  other  sido  of  the  road,  doubtless 
to  arrange  the  harness,  as  the  latter  has  said.  Schmidt  arrives 
without  obstacle  to  the  otheT  "side,  though  while  in  the  centre 
he  felt  a  giddiness  or  fainting,  which,  in  the  infirmity  from  which 
he  has  begun  to  suffer,  might  have  been  attended  with  fatal 
results. 

It  will  be  well  before  they  approach  the  house,  which  stands 
at  a  little  distance,  to  listen  to  the  grandfather  explaining  the 
sickness  of  his  granddaughter  and  give  some  description  of  him, 
although  the  light  of  the  lantern  is  cast  only  on  the  ground, 
and  its  broad  round  top  hinders  our  seeing  the  countenance  of 
him  who  has  it  in  his  hand  ;  but  from  the  little  that  can  be 
seen,  any  one  would  be  well  assured  that  his  extraction  had  not 
been  that  of  a  laborer,  considering  either  his  appearance,  his 
manners,  or  his  language.  He  is  old.  as  though  of  some  sixty- 
six  years,  clothed  in  the  garb  of  the  farmers  of  Champagne. 
On  joining  Schmidt,  and  the  latter  directing  to  him  the 


190  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

questions  usual  with  physicians  in  dangerous  cases  before  see- 
ing the  sufferer,  he  explains  to  him  in  polished  and  intelligent 
language  the  infirmity  which  afflicts  his  granddaughter.  They 
arrive  at  the  door  of  the  farm-house,  when  Schmidt,  after  Inur- 
ing the  narration  of  the  old  man.  stops  on  the  threshold,  inclines 
his  head,  collects  all  his  intellectual  forces,  and  asks  his  intro- 
ducer : 

—  How  old  is  the  young  wfiman  ? 

—  Twenty-three  years  and  some  months. 

—  Do  you  know  whether  your  granddaughter's  affections  are 
fixed  upon  any  one  ? 

—  I  am  sure  not,  for  the  poor  little  thing  has  suffered  since 
she  was  a  year  old,  when  through  a  wicked  physician  she  lost 
her  mother. 

—  And  did  she  feel  this  so  profoundly  as  to  have  retained 
the  impression  so  long  a  time  ?     It  is  uncommon. 

—  I  will  tell  you.     Her  mother  did  not  die,  she  disappeared 
from  her  husband's  side  to  hide  her  shame  :  she  was  my  daugh- 
ter, but  I  cannot  do  less  than  speak  thus.     To  crown  the  mis- 
fortune, poor  Regina,  which  is  the  name  of  my  granddaughter, 
discovered  some  three  months  since  by  chance,  that  her  mother 
is  still  living  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  in  a  deplorable  state,  and 
as  my  son-in-law,  who  is  an  honest  soldier,  wishes  not   even  to 
hear  the  name  of  his  wife,  Regina,  seeing  herself  separated  from 
her  mother,  has  fallen  into  so  profound  a  melancholy,  that  at 
this  critical  period  of  life,  it  has  overturned  her  constitution. 

During  this  short  explanation,  the  countenance  of  the  sage, 
which  took  an  air  of  gloom  mingled  with  dread,  was  made  visi- 
ble by  the  rays  of  light  which  were  transiently  cast  upon  it  by 
the  lantern,  which  revolved  in  the  hand  of  him  who  held  it. 
After  a  space  of  intense  emotion,  he  pronounces  the  name  of 
Regina,  and  adds  : 

—  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me  the  name  of  her 
mother  and  father,  for  I  have,  as  it  were,  a  recollection  of  some- 
thing that  is  like  this  sad  narration  ? 


THE  B  TUNS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  \  9  \ 

The  old  man  trembles,  the  lantern  shows  that,  but  nothing 
more  can  be  conjectured,  and  he  replies : 

—  My  son-in-law  is  named  Chicard. 

The  physician  passes  his  hand  down  his  stiff  beard,  and  con- 
tinues, as  if  he  had  been  speaking  : 

—  Then  have  the  goodness  to  introduce  me  to  the  apart- 
ment of  the  sufferer. 

Tard  puts  the  lantern  under  a  table,  knocks  at  a  door  close 
by,  which  is  opened  by  a  female  advanced  in  years,  who  is 
weeping,  and  they  are  both  introduced  to  the  bedside  of  Regina, 
whose  back  is  at  this  moment  turned  towards  the  new-comers. 
The  matron,  with  a  profusion  of  compliments,  explains  many  de- 
tails to  the  physician,  and  her  husband  remains  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Till  now  Schmidt  has  observed  only  the  sick  woman, 
whose  breath  is  wheezing,  without  seeing  her  face ;  but  while 
reflecting  he  gives  a  glance  towards  the  panel  of  the  opposite 
wall,  and  sees  the  portrait  in  oil  of  a  woman  whom,  at  every 
moment  of  his  sufferings,  as  we  have  seen  in  the  preceding 
pages,  he  has  remembered,  though  wrapped  in  a  mystery  which 
till  now  we  have  not  penetrated :  but  it  is  plain  enough  that 
on  seeing  this  portrait,  he  shudders,  looks  at  the  two  weeping 
parents,  sees  innocence  and  grief  in  their  countenances,  and  a 
tear  escapes  him,  a  cry  of  love  issuing  from  his  mouth,  which 
the  bystanders  interpret  as  we  do,  as  love  for  humanity. 

—  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  turn  Mademoiselle  Regina 
round  this  way  ? 

—  Regina,  Regina,  daughter  of  my  heart — says  the  discon- 
solate, aged  matron — my   daughter,  turn    round  ;  here   is  the 
Doctor  that  your  papa   says,  comes  to   cure  you ;  come,   I  will 
help  to  turn  you  round  this  way. 

—  What.  Grandmamma,  what? 

—  Here  is  M.  le  Docteur,  in  whom  your  father  places  all  his 
hope  of  seeing  you  once  more  well. 

—  And  is  her  father  here  ? — says   Schmidt,  with   deep  and 
manifest  emotion. 


1 92  THE  TWO  FA  THERS. , 

—  No,  Sir,  he  lives  in  Chaumont. 

The  breast  of  the  physician,  without  his  perceiving  it,  di- 
lates ;  and  at  the  same  time,  with  the  breath  in  his  mouth,  he 
adds  : 

—  Well !  let  us  try  and  console  this  little  angel ;  fear  no- 
thing ;  if  science  has  any  resources,  we  will  give  them   all   to 
her,  and  after  examining  her,  I  believe   I  shall  give  you   much 
consolation. 

In  this  interim  the  young  woman  has  turned.  She  is  the 
portrait  of  the  portrait  which  hangs  upon  the  wall  in  front. 
Schmidt  gazes  at  her  with  devouring  eyes.  It  seems  as  if  he 
were  going  to  mesmerize  her,  or  to  give  her  his  soul,  with  those 
looks.  He  bends  down,  applies  his  ear  to  the  chest  of  the 
patient,  touches  her  fleshless  bosom,  feels  her  pulse,  weeps,  and 


—  Her  paleness,   her  symptoms,  all    manifest    that    every 
part  of  the  animal  economy  has  been  affected   by  the  burden 
imposed  upon  it  at  the  moment  when  nature  was  about  to  de- 
velope  itself.     My  daughter,  do  you  not  feel  heat,  weight,  and 
pain  in  the  loins  1 

—  Yes,  Sir. 

—  Do  you  not  observe  a    dilatation   and    hardness    in   the 
breast  ? 

—  Yes,  Sir. 

—  Do  you  not  suffer  sometimes  much  Cephalia,  at  others, 
Cephalalgia,  and  often  Hemicranea,  or,  as  you  say  in  common 
parlance,  head-ache  \ 

—  Yes,  Sir. 

—  Have  you  not  lost  your  appetite  for  some  months  ?  Have 
you  not  felt  extreme  lassitude,  and  a  light  but  slow  fever? 

—  Yes.  Sir, — replies  the  old   lady,  and  adds — She  is  lusty 
by  nature,  and  what  most  alarms  us  is.   that   she  has   in  her 
ankles  ulcerous  wounds,  which  nothing  will  close  up. 

—  That  is  well,  that  will    save  her;   for   the  consumption  is 
only  in  its  first  stage.     Come,  my  friends,  you  need  not  alllict 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  193 

yourselves ;  I  am  going  to  prescribe  the  method  you  must  fol- 
low with  Mll'e  Regina  ;  and  if  she  has  change  of  air  and  scene, 
I  can  assure  you  she  will  recover  her  health  in  a  couple  of 
months. 

They  are  going  to  fetch  him  writing  materials ;  but  he  ga- 
zes at  the  girl,  turns  his  eyes  to  the  portrait,  takes  her  hand, 
presses  it,  and  drops  upon  it  a  tear,  no  longer  master  of  him- 
self, and  tells  the  aged  man  he  wishes  to  go  into  another  room 
to  write  his  prescription.  After  consoling  and  encouraging 
Regina,  he  goes  out  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  portrait,  his 
right  hand  upon  his  breast. 

When  he  is  seated  he  begins  to  write  ;  he  remains  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  studying  the  method  he  ought  to  use  with  the 
patient ;  he  finishes,  stands  up,  and  delivers  the  paper  to  Tard, 
saying  : 

—  If  you  follow  the  course  which  I  have  just  prescribed,  be 
sure  of  the  life  of  your  grandchild  ;  and  as  I  am  on  a  journey,  I 
shall  perhaps  be  unable  to  come  here  again,  but  follow  the  pre- 
scription exactly,  and   you  run  no   risk.     I  should  be  glad  to 
remain  beside  Regina  till  I  saw  her  cheerful  and  vivacious, 
but  .  .  .  but  it  cannot  be. 

—  Oh,  M.  le  Docteur,  God  bless  you  ;  if  my  son-in-law  were 
here,  he  would  be  happy  indeed  to  hear  you  speak  thus. 

—  Then  mind  you  follow  the  prescription  to  the  letter. 

What  passes  in  the  soul  of  Schmidt  every  time  the  inno- 
cent old  man  mentions  his  son-in-law,  or  his  unhappy  daughter, 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  decipher,  but  we  know  he  suffers  cru- 
elly ;  it  is  therefore  that  he  again  repeats  : 

—  Follow  the  prescription  to  the  letter,  and  do  not  fear — 
and  goes  out  at  the  door.     Jean  Tard  takes  the  lantern,  and 
they  go  out  in  the  direction  of  the  Canal,  the  same  way  as  they 
came.     On   arriving  at    the  plank,   the  old  mun   gives  a   few 
calls,  and  a  voice  at  some  distance  answers  him  : 

—  All  right. 

—  Good  night,  Sir,  and  follow  the  prescription. 

9 


194  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

—  Wait,  Doctor,  wait  till  the  boy  comes. 

—  He  is  with  the  carriage,  thank  you.     I  see  well  enough 
to  be  able  to  cross. 

—  Julien,  M.  le  Docteur  is  going  to  cross. 

—  All  right. 

—  Good  night,  then,  follow  the  prescription. 

—  Good  night,  Doctor,  try  and    see  her,  if  possible   once 
more. 

—  I  will  do  all  in  my  power. 

Schmidt  begins  to  walk,  and  the  old  man  to  cry  out : 

—  Julien,  come,  quick,  what  are  you  about  ? .  .  . 

The  plank  cracks,  Schmidt  totters,  the  plank  comes  in  two ; 
Schmidt  falls  into  the  canal.  The  voice  of  the  old  man,  with 
accent  of  despair,  is  raised  above  the  splash  at  the  fall  of 
Schmidt.  Some  efforts  of  the  victim  are  heard,  and  a  running 
in  different  directions. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

IT  was  eight  days  after  the  unhappy  Schmidt  had  left  the  Pa- 
raclete, when  this  which  we  have  just  related  happened  ;  and 
in  this  interval,  various  things  have  taken  place  in  those  ruins. 
On  the  day  following  the  departure  of  the  sage,  when  all  the 
laborers  of  the  vicinity  were  yet  in  alarm  at  the  flames  and 
dense  smoke  of  the  previous  night,  it  was  known  as  well  in  No- 
gent,  as  all  around,  that  the  Justice  of  Men  was  going  to  sur- 
prise the  sorcerer  of  the  vaults  of  the  ruined  monastery.  What- 
ever silence  the  police  wished  to  keep  in  the  business,  it  was 
not  possible  that  their  visit  to  the  dreaded  place,  and  the  for- 
midable man,  could  escape  the  public  curiosity.  After  the 
Sous-prefet  had  penetrated  with  all  the  apparatus  with  which 
men  surround  their  contemptible  Justice  into  the  cavernous 
vaults,  and  found  them  deserted  and  charred  by  fire,  seeing 
ashes  scattered  over  what  had  been  the  chemico-anatomical 
saloon,  the  warrant  for  apprehension,  on  suspicion  and  flight, 
was  made  out  against  the  physician,  Pierre  Schmidt.  If  in 
that  moment  there  had  been  desired  a  hundred  or  a  thousand 
witnesses  of  fabulous  atrocities  on  the  part  of  the  Sorcerer,  not 
only  would  the  ignorant  country  people  have  deposed  to  any 
number  of  such  deeds,  but  the  disciples  of  Abelard  would  also 
have  taken  anew  their  mortal  remains,  and  testified  to  the 
turns  and  revolutions  made  upon  the  gallows  by  his  innumera- 
ble victims.  Nothing  of  the  kind,  however,  was  necessary,  in 
order  that  the  name  of  the  delinquent  might  be  proclaimed, 
and  the  police  be  at  his  heels.  But  ah  !  Schmidt  has  disap- 


1 96  THE  T\\'0  FA  THERS. 

peared  iii  the  impetuous  canal,  in  which  an  old  enemy  of  his 
has  sought  to  bury  him,  at  least  so  runs  the  common  voice  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Chaumont,  no  particular  reason,  however, 
being  assigned  for  his  misfortune. 

Justice  has  no  sooner  abandoned  the  Paraclete,  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  than  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  neigh- 
borhood direct  their  steps  thither  in  procession  ;  and  although 
they  have  seen  the  before-mentioned  explorers  issue  forth  un- 
hurt, the  first  platoon  which  venture  to  poke  their  noses  into 
the  mouth  of  the  cavern,  are  not  without  their  terrors,  and 
there  are  runnings,  and  cries,  and  faintings,  and  falls,  and 
frights,  and  I  don't  know,  how  many  other  catastrophes,  because 
the  raven  with  the  pilled  head,  poor  animal,  lost  as  it  is  with- 
out its  master's  companionship,  flies  round  and  round  the  ruins 
croaking.  Among  the  crowd  of  people  who  have  come  toge- 
ther, are  found  the  two  laborers  whom  we  saw  at  the  begin- 
ning, crossing  themselves  at  the  sight  of  the  raven ;  and  the 
more  astute  of  them,  on  this  occasion  gathers  round  him  a 
crowd  of  curious  folks,  speaking  in  this  fashion,  in  a  loud  tone, 
as  though  to  give  himself  importance. 

—  Eh  !  Julien,  eh  !  I  told  you  a  while  ago  !  see  if  I've  been 
mistaken  the  least  bit  in  the  world  :   the  raven's  the  soul  o'  the 
sorcerer,  and  so  as  they  don't  catch  him  they'll  see  many  catty- 
strofies. 

—  Then  come,  let's  kill  him — says  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

—  Come  on  ! — repeat  a  hundred. 

No  one  came  there  to  shoot,  and  yet  by  magic  a  gun  finds 
its  way  to  their  hands.  The  most  dexterous  applies  the  stock 
to  his  shoulder,  shuts  his  left  eye  and  points  to  the  raven.  Poor 
ingrate !  that  didst  not  return  to  the  ark  of  Noah,  why  now 
dost  thou  give  the  lie  to  thy  proverbial  inconstancy  and  stn-U-li 
out  thy  neck  to  see  if  thou  canst  meet  th}-  master  ?  Fly  !  Fly  ! 
Let  not  thy  wings  hang  down  !  Disappear !  Hover  over  the 
vaults  ! 


THE  RUINS  OF  THE  PARAVLKTK.  197 

Paf!  .... 

taf !  ....  — repeats  the  echo ;  but  not  till 
after  the  miserable  messenger  of  Schmidt  has,  with  fluttering 
wings,  rolled  down  the  mouldering  walls. 

A  cry  as  of  the  roaring  of  the  waves  dashing  themselves  on 
the  rocks  of  the  solitary  Syrtes  arises  from  the  mouth  of  that 
ignorant  rabble,  and  some  daring  ones  begin  to  run  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  spot  where  the  poor  raven  has  fallen  ;  a  hundred  fol- 
low these,  and  when  they  arrive  at  the  spot  it  is  yet  struggling 
in  the  last  convulsions  of  death.  With  branches  doubled  to- 
gether like  tongs  they  take  hold  of  him,  and  it  causes  them  hor- 
ror to  observe  the  protuberances  on  the  bare  head  of  the  raven, 
who  has  never  done  any  other  mischief  than  out  of  gratitude 
seek  its  master.  Oh  !  the  ignorant  populace  is  fearful  when 
blinded  by  superstition,  whether  in  politics,  in  religion,  or  any 
other  human  passion.  The  voice  of  a  man,  no  matter  whom,  in 
these  popular  gatherings,  when  the  spirit  is  prepared,  produces  a 
magical  and  always  a  diabolical  effect.  One  voice  arouses  a 
thousand  cries,  and  the  tumult  goes  on  increasing  like  soap-lather 
beaten  by  branches  of  thorny  bramble.  In  all  these  popular  re- 
unions, which  have  caused  some  pages  of  History  to  be  written 
in  blood,  the  beginning  has  been  a  voice  uttered  by  nobody 
knows  whom  ;  but  these  voices  a're  like  the  thunderbolt  which 
destroys,  kills,  annihilates,  overturns  a  city,  no  one  being  able  to 
tell  whence  it  cometh.  One  of  these  cries  has  the  power  to 
create  a  phalanx  of  brigands,  one  of*  these  cries  awakens  atro- 
cious passions,  and  the  earth  itself  sprouts  up  with  arms  to  ena- 
ble the  people  to  imbrue  their  hands  in  innocent  blood.  Oh  ! 
as  the  raven  dies  so  have  died  thousands  of  innocents,  and  like 
it  been  dragged  along  the  ground,  quartered  as  they  quarter  it, 
torn  to  atoms  as  it  is.  Men  who  command  !  would  you  be  able 
to  mollify  the  fury  aroused  by  these  mysterious  voices  in  the 
breast  of  the  poor  stupid  people,  and  to  control  the  commotion 
nf  their  raging  waves  ?  Then  educate  them,  instruct  them,  make 


198  T1IE  TWO  FATHERS. 

them  know  their  Dignity,  and  then  with  a  word  you  will  control 
them  better  than  now  by  brutal  force,  you  would  run  no  risk, 
you  would  no  more  exasperate  them  by  attacking  them  with  your 
bayonets.  The  people  in  the  popular  street-fights  are  like  the 
sea,  which  they  imitate  in  their  fury,  which  is  divided  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  oars  of  the  A'essel,  to  unite  again,  the  vessel  being 
passed,  with  all  the  more  impetus.  To  oppose  material  force 
not  by  its  like  but  by  moral,  ought  to  be  the  political  maxim  of 
men  in  our  age.  The  people  have  been  provoked  for  many  cen- 
turies, they  are  accustomed  to  despotic  treatment,  they  are  very 
ignorant,  they  have  good  impulses,  they  are  not  wanting  in  heart 
nor  in  a  certain  criterium  which  makes  them  appreciate  the  just, 
the  good,  the  useful,  the  heroic,  the  grand  ;  they  must  be  treated 
with  moderated  mildness,  with  reserved  frankness,  with  a  self- 
respectful  kindness.  To  let  yourself  down  like  the  demagogues, 
even  to  ignominy,  makes  the  masses  proud,  and  they  despise  the 
wretch  as  soon  as  they  know  him  ;  to  be  proud  so  far  as  to 
claim  to  be  superior  to  them  irritates  them.  Oh  if  the  people 
were  better  educated  and  had  a  high  idea  of  their  Dignity  as 
rational  beings,  those  insulated  voices  which  are  heard  in  the 
popular  reunions  and  cause  such  misfortunes,  would  be  solitary 
cries  to  which  the  air  would  echo  back  a  universal  shout  of 
"  Human  Dignity  " 

But  come,  whither  does  our  pen  carry  us  ?  We  are  wander- 
ing. No :  for  the  excited  country  people,  when  they  sec  the 
raven  lifeless,  suddenly  enter  the  vaults,  and  by  their  cries,  their 
gestures,  their  menaces,  show  that  if  Schmidt  were  here  he  would 
pay  the  tribute  of  his  blood  to  this  fanatic  people.  The  sight 
of  the  ashes  yet  hot,  the  carbonized  bones,  the  half-consumed 
skulls,  ropes  that  they  find,  two  stones  enveloped  in  a  net,  some 
blocks  of  wood  which  have  plainly  served  to  torture  victims, 
fearful  anecdotes  which  run  from  mouth  to  mouth,  atrocious  con- 
jectures which  the  ignorant  form  at  pleasure  with  nauseating 
colorings,  all  these  united  and  much  that  escapes  us  in  this  tu- 
mult, rouse  them  to  anger,  intoxicate  them  with  fury,  they  long 


THE  R  UINS  OF  THE  PARA  OLETK  \  99 

to  find  if  it  were  only  the  skeleton  of  the  wizard,  to  grind  his 
bones  to  powder.  They  search,  they  examine,  they  open  sepul- 
chres, they  cry  out,  ....  until  another  of  those  mysterious 
voices  says  in  a  corner : 

—  He  escaped  last  night  by  the  river. 

A  confused  rumor  is  heard  and  presently  they  may  be  seen, 
those  besotted  beings,  defiling  one  by  one,  relating  at  pleasure 
what  they  have  seen,  what  they  have  heard,  things  that  could 
not  even  enter  into  the  mind  of  an  educated  man. 

Among  the  multitude  who  are  retiring,  for  the  night  is  fast 
approaching,  Henri,  the  agent  of  police,  may  be  seen,  and  the 
two  countrymen  of  the  first  day  of  our  History. 

The  chimneys  of  town  and  country  are  beginning  to  smoke, 
the  stars  one  by  one  are  breaking  out,  now  is  heard  the  munch- 
ing of  the  dilatory  ox  and  now  the  little  bells  on  the  beasts  of 
labor,  now  go  the  fowls  to  roost  upon  their  perches,  from  time 
to  time  is  heard  the  bark  of  the  faithful  dogs  guardians  of  the 
dwelling-places  of  men,  when  not  only  those  who  have  been  pro- 
faning the  abode  of  Schmidt,  but  those  also  who  have  remained 
at  home,  are  talking  of  the  horrors  of  those  vaults  and  of  the 
diabolical  disposition  of  their  master.  This  subject  is  about  to 
become  the  butt  of  universal  curiosity,  when  the  news  arrives  of 
the  misfortune  of  the  two  young  people,  and  even  then  all  the 
weight  of  the  crime  falls  upon  the  malefactor  Schmidt.  If  we 
wished  to  relate  what  was  said  by  these  clowns,  and  even  by  those 
who  were  in  their  own  estimation  refined,  we  should  never  come 
to  an  end :  it  is  enough  to  say.  that  many  of  the  laborers  will  not 
sleep,  believing,  although  they  know  nothing  of  the  doctrine  of 
the  metempsychosis,  that  the  soul  of  the  raven  has  passed  into 
the  mosquitos,  and  that  this  night  they  will  have  the  power  to 
inflict  death  or  contaminate  their  beds  with  scandalous  images. 

The  man  who  lives  agitated  by  exterior  things,  now  absorbed 
in  business,  now  wallowing  in  vice,  now  corroded  by  ambition, 
in  a  word  devoured  by  all  those  passions  which  are  called  into 
play  by  intercourse  with  men,  can  care  but  little,  according  to 


200  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

our  poor  understanding,  for  that  which  is  longed  for  by  one  who, 
abstracting  himself  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  from  exterior 
things,  soars  with  rapid  flight  into  regions  more  spiritual.  It  is 
true  that  the  latter  will  often  fall  into  the  snares  laid  for  him 
by  those  who  are  more  accustomed  to  the  habits  of  the  dwellers 
in  the  heavy  terrestrial  atmosphere  ;  but  what  matter  ?  in  com- 
pensation he  enjoys  that  which  truly  ennobles  him,  elevation  of 
soul.  How  many  would  be  delighted  with  us  to  enjoy  ubiquity  ! 
How  beautiful  must  it  not  be  to  see  men  running  about  on  their 
ant-hill  of  a  planet,  and  be  able  to  dart  our  own  glances  into  the 
infinite  orbs  that  roll  over  our  heads,  and  to  contemplate  the 
glorious  multiform  scene  that  from  this  height  lies  within  the 
vision  !  Well !  God  cannot  do  less  than  pity  men  as  from  his 
throne  he  sees  them  in  this  world,  and  his  infinite  goodness 
will  pardon  many  things.  We  will  have  the  hardihood  to  beg 
of  him  that,  if  it  be  not  contrary  to  his  divine  attributes,  he- 
would  give  us  part  of  his  prerogative :  that  of  being  in  all 
places,  after  we  have  passed  into  Eternity ;  because  the  enjoy- 
ment of  this  gift  must,  according  to  our  limited  understanding, 
form  part  of  the  blessedness  conceded  to  the  soul  of  the  mortal. 
Oh  !  if  one  could  see  the  world  at  one  glance,  what  varied  ideas 
one  would  form  of  it !  But  since  this  is  not  possible,  let  us  bow 
our  neck  and  see  what  is  happening  the  night  ushered  in  by  the 
afternoon  of  the  poor  Raven's  death. 

It  is  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  between  the  lights,  and  a 
woman,  who  does  not  seem  a  country  girl  nor  yet  absolutely  a 
city  demoiselle,  is  ascending  the  river  in  the  direction  of  Nogent. 
She  arrives  at  the  town,  and  for  three  or  four  hours  is  wandering 
round  it  apparently  without  any  object ;  and  she  must  certainly 
be  tolerably  familiar  with  the  place,  for  she  constantly  comes 
back  to  one  particular  spot  on  the  southwest. 

Through  the  thick  material  of  her  vail,  strong  emotion,  de- 
light, hope,  and  doubt,  may  be  observed  on  her  countenance. 
She  enters  several  shops,  but  does  not  buy  any  thing,  and  exec;  t 
what  she  cannot  help  saying  on  these  occasions,  she  does  not  say 


THE  K  U1NS  OF  THE  PARA  CLETE.  20 1 

any  thing ;  the  mallet  which  has  ten  times  repeated  its  blows  on 
the  bronze  of  the  Tower,  which  serves  to  indicate  the  march  of 
Time,  is  perhaps  still  hot,  when,  provided  with  a  dark  lantern,  she 
takes  the  road  that  leads  to  the  ruins  of  the  Paraclete.  "Wrapped 
in  a  large  shawl,  she  hides  at  once  her  agitation  and  the  scarce 
light  yielded,  in  spite  of  itself,  by  the  lantern.  What  is  she.  a 
weak  woman,  going  to  do  in  the  terrible  ruins  ?  Let  us  follow 
her.  Her  respiration  denotes  that  she  is  tired  ;  but  she  knows 
so  well  the  little  paths  which  lead  to  the  mouth  of  the  cavern, 
that  we  almost  doubt  whether  it  is  fatigue,  this  thick  breathing, 
and  the  manifest  undulation  of  her  breast,  which  the  shawl  at 
this  moment  does  not  conceal.  Now  she  is  in  the  entrance  of 
the  ruined  portico,  she  turns  to  the  left,  she  loses  herself  among 
the  ruins,  and  now  we  do  not  see  her  ;  but  fortunately,  the  silvery 
light  of  her  little  lantern  has  betrayed  her,  and  between  the  ir- 
regular shapeless  walls  we  can  discern  her  shadow,  that  some- 
times expands,  sometimes  contracts,  and  breaks  itself,  so  to 
speak,  in  the  ruins.  Now  she  hides  the  light  and  we  have  lost 
her.  She  whistles,  whistles  again,  repeats  several  times  a  pro- 
longed whistle  ;  she  has  taken  out  the  little  lantern,  and  we  can 
see  her ;  she  glides  down  a  sloping  bank,  formed  by  the  crum- 
bling masses,  and  is  covered  with  ivy  ;  she  plunges  into  the  sub- 
terranean caverns.  Let  us  not  leave  her,  for  without  light  it 
would  be  impossible  to  see  what  she  is  doing.  What  bravery  ! 
She  fears  nothing,  she  calls  Schmidt,  Jose. 

—  Doctor,  Doctor,  here  is  Martha,  come  to  bring  you  good 
news,  glorious  and  happy  tidings.     Doctor,  Dr.  Schmidt ! 

She  is  answered  by  the  echo  of  her  own  voice,  and  footsteps, 
that  repeat  .  .   .  .  sat  .  .  .  .  sat  .... 
Martha  stops,  reflects,  exclaims : 

—  Can  he  have  died  ? 

This  word  in  the  mansions  of  the  dead  has  a  surprising  effect 
on  the  heart  of  Martha,  daughter  of  the  husbandman,  dis- 
honored by  the  noble,  the  grateful  woman  who  comes  with  her 


202  THE  TWO  FATHERS. 

heart  in  her  mouth  to  give  to  her  protector  good  news.  The 
young  woman  continues : 

—  And  Jose,  also  ?     And  the  dog  ?     It  cannot  be. 
Nevertheless,  she  trembles.      But  controlling  her  emotion, 

she  goes  to  the  anatomical  saloon.  When  near  she  perceives 
the  smell  of  smoke,  discovers  some  signs  of  fire,  leans  down  and 
lights  the  ground.  Close  besides  her  she  finds  the  wings  of  the 
raven. 

—  What  do  I  see  ?     What  do  I  see  ?     Has  even  the  raven 
fallen  a  victim  to  the  fatal  Destiny  of  the  most  generous  and 
compassionate  man  ever  known  ? 

She  continues  her  walk  ;  the  door  of  the  saloon  is  turned  to 
charcoal ;  in  this  department  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  brands, 
ashes,  and  heaps  yet  smoking ;  some  calcined  bones  make  her 
utter  a  cry  of  grief.  Martha  weeps,  Martha  reflects,  Martha 
thinks  to  have  guessed  what  has  happened,  Martha  believes 
Schmidt  has  disappeared  a  victim  to  suicide,  but  sighing,  she 
continues  her  examination.  She  passes  from  one  room  to  an- 
other, finding  only  solitude,  she  calls  and  only  silence  answers, 
she  weeps,  she  is  in  despair,  and  returning  to  the  entrance  of 
the  caverns,  picks  up  one  of  the  raven's  wings,  kneels  down, 
prays  to  God  for  the  soul  of  Schmidt,  longs  to  have  wings  like 
this  which  she  has  found,  that  she  may  fly  to  announce  the 
misfortune  to  others  who  will  weep  bitterly  over  it,  and  con- 
cludes with  this  apostrophe : 

—  Wise  old  man,  restorer  of  my  life,  you  have  like  myself 
bowed  down  under  misfortune,  you  have  died  through   doing 
good,  and  here  is  a  feeble  woman  who  pledges  herself,  for  your 
sake  and  her  own,  to  avenge  you  on  the  wretch  who  makes  so 
many  suffer.     Oh  !  Doctor !  if  Martha,  the  poor  Martha,  had 
been  here  you  should  not  have  died.     Liberator  of  the  poor, 
my  protector,  my  old  father's  generous  benefactor,  Martha  loves 
you,  Martha  would  have  rejoiced  in  consoling  you  with  all  the 
sacrifices  you  could  have  wished  from  her,  if  you  would  but  only 


THE  RUISS  OF  THE  PARACLETE.  203 

have  preserved  your  days  for  the  good  of  many  !  And  what 
shall  we  do  now  ? 

The  answer  is  a  copious  flood  of  tears,  which  she  concludes, 
"saying  between  her  sobs  : 

—  But  HE  shall  not  be  long  happy  ! 

Martha  abandons  the  sad  spot. 


THE  E1O). 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

LAS  CUATRO  POSTRIMERf  AS  DEL  HOMBRE, 

JEtaerb,  3ttrria,  Mmia,  ij  (gloria, 

FOR 

ADADUS     CALPE. 

ESPA^OL. 


PROSPECTO. 

CUAXDO  el  hombre  llega  al  uso  de  la  razon,  lo  priruero,  qne  le  en- 
tristece  los  sentidos  y  el  alma,  es  su  fin.  Desde  entcnces  sabe  lo  que 
es  el  horror  de  la  muerte,  espera  con  miedo  el  juicio,  se  estremece  al 
pensar  en  el  infierno,  y  ansia  dudoso  llegar  a  la  gloria.  Ese  mismo 
horror,  ese  miedo,  ese  estreineciiniento,  y  esa  duda  ansiosa  esperiincnta 
en  el  azaroso  curso  de  su  tida ;  pero,  aunque  lo  sabe,  no  piensa  qne, 
si  horrible  es  la  muerte  del  cuerpo,  tremenda  es  la  de  su  honor,  de  su 
conciencia,  de  su  vida  pilblica  y  donustica;  si  formidable  es  el  juicio 
de  sus  acciones,  palabras  y  pensamientos  mas  alia  de  este  valle  de 
amargura,  mas  temible  es  el  de  sus  semejantes,  porque  carecen  de  la 
sabiduria,  de  la  bondad,  y  de  la  justicia  de  Dios :  si  borrendo  es  el 
lugar  del  castigo,  insoportable  es  tambien  el  infierno  de  la  sociedad  en 
que  vivimos:  si  deliciosa,  si  indescribible,  si  infinita  es  la  gloria  para 
el  que  obru  segun  la  ley,  dnlce  y  deleitable  es  la  pequeiia  gloria,  que 
puede  formarse  en  este  mundo  con  la  religion,  la  sabiduria,  el  trabajo, 
la  educacion,  y  la  constancia. 

El  objeto  de  esta  obra,  que  esta  dividida  en  cuatro  vohlmenes,  es 
demostrar  la  verdad  de  lo  que  se  acaba  de  decir. 

Notiwa  of  tf)t  flnss. 

Cuttrrier  des  Etats-Unis  22  Juilkt,  \%5Q.— New- York. 

LAS  CUATRO  POSTRIMEI.IAS  DEL  HOMBRE.— Tel  est  le  litre  d'une  serie  de  romans  phi- 
losophiques  ecrits  en  espagnol,  dont  la  publication  vient  de  commencer  a  New-York.  1,'au- 
teur,  Mr.  ADADUS  CALPE,  se  propose  dcvelopper,  ecus  cette  forme  interessante,  quelques 
verites  de  1'ordre  le  plus  eleve.  I.a  premiere  livraison.  que  nous  avons  sous  les  yeux. 
semble  r6veler  chez  lui  des  qualile*  de  style  et  une  grande  originalite  ;  il  ne  sera  toutefois 
possible  de  juger  du  morile  de  I'mivr.ii/c  qne  lorsqii'il  sera  plus  avanc6. 


Xoticrs  of  tf)t  $rtsjs — 

Kew-  York  Courier  <(•  Inquirer,  \Mh  January,  1851. 

LAS    CUATRO   POSTRIMERIAS    DEL   IIOMBRG  :    MuERTB,  JulCIO,  INPIERNO  Y   GLORIA,  JS 

a  Spanish  romance,  written  in  this  city  by  Mr.  ADADUS  CALPE,  and  in  course  of  publication 
by  W.  G.  STEWART.  Its  title  signifies  "The  Four  Last  States  of  Man !— Death,  Judgment, 
Hell  and  Heaven,"  and  the  book  is  designed  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  ignorance  and  supersti- 
tion. The  spirit  is  philosophical,  and  the  story,  so  far  as  yet  developed,  is  ingenious  and 
interesting. 

Journal  of  Commerce,  \\th  January,  1851. — New-York. 

This  work  is  designed  to  illustrate  the  evils  of  ignorance  and  superstition.  The  interest 
of  this  story  increases  as  it  becomes  developed,  and  the  appearance  of  future  numbers  will 
be  gladly  welcomed  by  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  beautiful  language  in  which  it  is 
written. 

Xeic-Yoi"k  Daily  Tribune,  January  12,  1851. 

LAS  CUATRO  POSTRIMERIAS  DKL  HOMBRE,  (the  Four  Final  Conditions  of  Man).  By 
ADADUS  CALPE.  New-York  :  WM.  G.  STEWART. 

We  have  received  the  first  and  second  numbers  of  this  work— a  novel  in  the  Spanish 
language,  by  SeiTor  ADADUS  CALPE,  a  resident  of  this  city.  It  will  be  published  in  four 
parts,  the  whole  forming  a  work  of  about  2500  pages.  The  style  is  fresh  and  graphic,  and  the 
story,  so  far  as  we  have  perused  it,  is  animated  and  interesting.  To  the  large  and  growing 
Spanish  population  of  this  city  and  country,  it  will  be  an  attractive  work,  while  to  those 
studying  the  language  it  may  be  read  with  profit. 

The  Era,  January  12,  1851. 

LITERARY. — A  Spanish  gentleman,  Seiior  ADADUS  CALPE,  who  has  travelled  and 
reflected  greally,  has  commenced  the  'publication  of  a  series  of  metaphysical  romances, 
under  the  title  of  "  LAS  CUATRO  POSTRIMEIUAS  DEL  HOMBRE  "  (the  Four  Ends  of  Man),  in 
the  Spanish  language.  The  first  and  second  parts  contain  a  part  of  "MCERTE  "  (Death), 
and  thus  far  evince  a  highly  imaginative  and  philosophic  vein  of  thought;  the  incidents  are 
wrought  out  with  ingenuity,  and  the  entire  work  will  develop  a  new  and  elevated  view  of 
moral  thoughts  and  human  actions. 

Pennsylvania  Inquirer,  Avgmt  5,  1850. — Philadelphia. 

A  ROMANCE  IN  SPANISH.— We  have  been  favored  with  the  first  number  of  a  new  work, 
wh'.ch  has  just  been  commenced  in  New-  York.  It  is  written  and  printed  in  Spanish.  The 
title,  translated,  is  "THE  FOUR  LAST  STATES  OF  MAN."  TJje  author  is  ADADUS  CALPE,  a 
highly-gifted  Spaniard,  who  has  taken  up  his  residence  in  this  country.  The  spirit  is  at 
once  philosophical  and  imaginative  ;  the  incidents  exhibit  great  ingenuity,  and  the  interest 
excited  is  thus  far  intense. 

Tliis  work  may  be  obtained  of  the  Publishers  of  The  Two  Fathers, 
Messrs.  STRINGER  «fe  TOWNSEXD.  The  first  volume  has  already  appeared  in 
12  Nos.,  price  25  cents  each,  or  complete,  bound  in  cloth,  f3  50. 


The  SECOND  PART  of  THE  TWO  FATIIEES  is  now  in  press.  It 
will  form  a  volume  similar  to  "The  Ruins  of  the  Paraclete,''  but 
containing  some  40  or  50  more  pages,  entitled  HECTOR  ALONE. 

The  THIRD  PART,  SCIENCE  AND  LOVE,  will  follow  immediately 
after  the  publication  of  the  Second. 


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